


From the Shallows

by dracoqueen22



Series: Crown the Empire [14]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24376948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Ten years have past since Cybertron saw the last of war, but when the newly united Cybertronians attempt to find a way to save their planet, they dig too deep. Something sleeps far below, and it’s now starting to stir.
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out/Snarl (Transformers), Grimlock/Starscream (Transformers), Hot Rod/Jazz, Optimus Prime/Soundwave, Ratchet/Wheeljack (Transformers), Skywarp/Swoop/Thundercracker (Transformers)
Series: Crown the Empire [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/361238
Comments: 196
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter 1

Optimus was accustomed to fatigue.  
  
The long stretch of the war meant he barely knew what it meant to exist without feeling a strut-deep weariness in his everyday functioning. He’d learned to live with the steady pull of exhaustion, the constant sensation of near-collapse, all while pushing forward because it was the only choice he had.  
  
Peacetime made fatigue anathema to him.  
  
He had to re-learn how to be well-rested. He had to reset his system to function at a proper level, as opposed to one of near-collapse and starvation. He had to learn how to be healthy. He had to learn to accept it. To enjoy it.  
  
Complaining of fatigue became an altogether new experience for him. He never complained during the war. He certainly didn’t complain after.  
  
He felt it now.  
  
He onlined with a deep exhaustion gnawing at his struts, as though the pleasant night he’d spent in his berth, in Soundwave’s arms, had been one of tossing and turning and nightmares.  
  
If it was only the one morning, he wouldn’t be concerned.  
  
This was going on a week now, a general malaise which piled on the fatigue until it took genuine effort to activate his optics and his sensory suites. His internal alarm beeped at him, and Optimus wanted to ignore it, to roll over and never leave the berth.  
  
His energy levels glowed at him, near ninety-percent, completely acceptable levels for a morning. They certainly did not reflect the way he felt physically, as though there was a disconnect. He wished the answer were a mere sensor malfunction. That would certainly make fixing this easier.  
  
“Optimus?”  
  
Soundwave’s concerned tones washed over him. He never used the vocal modulator when they were alone, and that knowledge warmed Optimus’ spark, despite the odd, icy tingling in his extremities.  
  
“I’m awake,” he rasped, and forced his optics online, though it took far too long for clarity.  
  
His chassis ached. The mounts where the Matrix used to be -- lingering even after its removal -- twitched, sending a low-grade ache through his frame. There was a weight on his chest, bearing him down into the berth.  
  
Optimus rubbed at his chest, and that took greater effort than it should. Everything felt sluggish, his thoughts going through a bottleneck of comprehension.  
  
Soundwave leaned over him, cupping his face with one hand, concern writ all over his field. "You are ill," he said, a statement, not a question.  
  
"I don't know what I am," Optimus admitted with a sigh. Images floated at the back of his processor, too hazy to distinguish, a dream he couldn't remember.  
  
"This a pattern," Soundwave observed, his thumb stroking Optimus' cheek, his concern present but not overwhelming. He knew better than to push.  
  
Optimus half-shuttered his optics. "I know."  
  
"See Ratchet?"  
  
"We have the weekly meeting this morning. I don't have the time," Optimus said. He tried to sit up, and only managed it with Soundwave's aid. His head swam, and he swayed. "But I think you're right. We need to make time."  
  
Soundwave slipped off the berth. "I'll call. You rest."  
  
"For once, I do not intend to disagree." Optimus wedged a pillow behind his back and leaned up against the wall, optics slitting in a doze state. He rubbed his chest again, trying to ease the ache.  
  
Warmth nuzzled at his left audial. " _Are you okay_?" Laserbeak asked, purring a soft noise of concern.  
  
Optimus patted his shoulder, giving her permission to perch there, and scratched under her chin. "I'm sure it's nothing serious. Probably a minor vent infection. I'll be fine."  
  
She tucked in against his intake, clearly unconvinced.  
  
Frankly, Optimus wasn't sure he'd managed to convince himself.  
  
Soundwave returned with some energon, one for each of them. He sat by Optimus' hip as Optimus gave him a grateful smile, using both hands to hold the cube. His fingers trembled alarmingly, and Optimus couldn't hide it from Soundwave's perceptive visor.  
  
"Ratchet coming," he said as he watched until Optimus obediently sipped at the warmed energon, spiced to entice him, despite the queasiness in his tanks. "Informed the others of delay to meeting."  
  
Buzzsaw lifted from his roost -- the one he shared with Laserbeak above their berth, when not docked within Soundwave at least -- and landed on Soundwave's shoulder, where he'd long since given up his sonic cannon. He nuzzled Soundwave's jaw in a blatant show of affection he'd only recently felt comfortable displaying around Optimus.  
  
He wisely never commented on it.  
  
"Thank you," Optimus said and sipped more on his energon, the flush of it doing valiant battle against the fatigue in his frame.  
  
It helped as much as it could.  
  
"For Optimus, anything," Soundwave murmured.  
  
Optimus rested the cube on a thigh and scooped up Soundwave's hand with one now freed, tangling their fingers together. "I'm sure I'm fine."  
  
Soundwave looked at their joined hands, his thumb rubbing over the back of Optimus'. He said nothing, the worry in his field speaking for itself, and he brushed a kiss over Optimus' knuckles.  
  
"Drink," Soundwave murmured at length. "Ratchet will be here soon."  
  
To soothe his fears, Optimus drank.  
  
And maybe, a little bit, to soothe his own.  
  


~

  
  
Soundwave didn't do frantic, but there was something uneasy and urgent about the ping he sent Ratchet, stirring him from a warm and cozy lie-in with Wheeljack. He grumbled into the back of Wheeljack's neck, tangled around his mate like an Earth cephalopod, not wanting to let go.  
  
Of course there was something wrong with Optimus.  
  
There was always something wrong with Optimus.  
  
Optimus existed to give Ratchet the Cybertronian equivalent of a coronary.  
  
Ratchet grumbled as much aloud, against Wheeljack's neck.  
  
Wheeljack chuckled. "You know, no one believes your bluster anymore, Ratch. They all know you love them."  
  
"Then I guess I need to be meaner."  
  
Wheeljack's field washed over him, rich and warm with love. "It won't work, they know you too well."  
  
Ratchet sighed. He leveraged himself away from the comfort of Wheeljack's frame -- always too hot, he ran too many programs, but damn if it didn't feel good to a medic who always ran a wee bit cold.  
  
"Damn me for caring," he grumbled as he stumbled off the berth, still half in recharge, not fully alert. "Too bad for you, too, because you're not getting the overload I was going to give you this morning."  
  
"Oh, woe is me." Wheeljack rolled over on his back, shamelessly splayed, as if trying to entice Ratchet back to the berth. "Whatever shall I do."  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics, and nearly lost his balance as a resort. He caught himself and fumbled around in their cabinet for one of the spare cubes he kept at hand, liberally dosing it with a somewhat ill-advised booster. He was old and creaky. He needed a little help to get going sometimes.  
  
He downed the whole thing in several quick gulps and turned to look for his portable medkit, feet catching on a random pile of tubing in the middle of the floor. He pinwheeled to keep his balance, and threw a glare over his shoulder.  
  
"Primus! Wheeljack!"  
  
"Pretty sure you're the one who left that there," Wheeljack said with two raised orbital ridges.  
  
"Why would I have tubing?" Ratchet groused as he dug through the table and found his spare medkit under a half-deconstructed humidifier. It vanished into subspace.  
  
He went back into the berthroom, stepped around the pile of tubing, and over a discarded supply box -- empty of whatever it had once contained. "Clean up a little before you head out with Perceptor, please?" Ratchet asked as he leaned over to give Wheeljack a parting kiss.  
  
"I'll try," Wheeljack promised.  
  
And he would try. Ratchet knew he would. Now, whether he'd get distracted midway by something he found needing a repair or an upgrade or suited a project just perfectly... that was the question. Ratchet learned a long time ago not to take it personally.  
  
The effort mattered.  
  
Ratchet dragged a cloth down his face with half-sparked effort, feeling the years and the mileage in every creak of his frame, and shlumped out of the suite he shared with Wheeljack. It was much, much larger than the tiny room they’d shared on the Ark-22. Ten years changed a lot, including the creation of suitable habitation.  
  
While Ratchet had opted to live closer to the Autobot command center, per his position, many of the Autobots had scattered into apartments, or personal living spaces, either building them on their own, or refurbishing buildings which had survived the bombardment. Polyhex was a curious mix of new construction, old ruins, and reconstruction right now.  
  
Ratchet rather liked it that way.  
  
He took the lift to the very top, where Optimus’ habsuite was a level below the penthouse, and the penthouse itself had been turned into a public space, an atrium and observatory for any visitor to enjoy. Optimus’ habsuite was only slightly larger than most, on account of needing room for the cassettes, but he hadn’t wanted it to be ostentatious or grand. He even shared the level with Ultra Magnus and Jazz.  
  
Ratchet tried to swallow his worry as he arrived at Optimus’ suite and pinged for entry, the door opening immediately with Soundwave on the other side of it, gesturing him inside.  
  
“What’s he done to himself now?” Ratchet asked, throwing gruff over his shoulders like a mantle, to hide the worry gnawing on his spark.  
  
“Illness unknown,” Soundwave said as he led Ratchet through the main room and toward the berth room at the back, settled perfectly between the washroom and the office.  
  
“Illness?” Ratchet repeated, and his frown deepened. “What’s his symptoms? Is he purging? How long has he been sick?”  
  
Soundwave paused outside the door, and though Ratchet couldn’t see his expression behind the mask, the glimpses of his field depicted a partner worrying himself into a frenzy. “Weeks,” he said. “Symptoms mild, but progressing. Fatigue. Insomnia. Weakness. Ache.” He tapped his chest cavity.  
  
Where the Matrix had been on Optimus’ frame.  
  
Ratchet swore subvocally. He was probably the only surviving medic in the universe who knew anything about the bond between a Prime and their Matrix, and what he knew could fill a glass bottle.  
  
“Let me see him,” Ratchet said, with the world-weary tone of a mech who’d had to battle against this same thing too many times to count.  
  
Soundwave nodded and opened the door. Ratchet braced himself and stepped inside, prepared for anything.  
  
It was almost mundane to find Optimus sitting on the berth, Laserbeak cuddled on one shoulder, an open datapad in his hands. He was working, no doubt, despite his illness.  
  
Ratchet took one look at Optimus and instantly cataloged the obvious symptoms -- distress in his systems consistent with poor recharge, fatigue, aching in the struts and chassis… If Ratchet didn’t know better, he’d think it was a case of cyberflu.  
  
He always knew better.  
  
“Weeks, huh?” Ratchet asked as he pulled out his portable scanner.  
  
Optimus gave him a gentle smile. “It didn’t seem serious in comparison.”  
  
In comparison to being shot, stabbed, dismembered, touched without his consent… Yeah. Ratchet could see why Optimus would downplay it.  
  
Ratchet snorted. “I’m more curious why this one didn’t come to me.” He tilted his head toward Soundwave. “Since he has a better grasp of your well-being.” Though it was also obvious. No doubt Optimus had convinced Soundwave otherwise.  
  
Optimus glanced at Soundwave, who said nothing, but there was a wealth of conversation in the exchange.  
  
“I wouldn’t let him,” Optimus said.  
  
“I knew it.” Ratchet sighed as the scan washed over Optimus and fed him important data regarding Optimus’ physical state.  
  
It all came back as expected. Fatigue. Lack of proper recharge. It seemed like his system wasn’t holding the charge of the energon like it was supposed to. Like a battery which had gradually lost the capacity or ability to hold a charge.  
  
Optimus was too young to be suffering from metal fatigue.  
  
It had to be because of the Matrix.  
  
Ratchet sighed and cast around for a chair, finding one to drag closer. He sat near the berth and rubbed his face with his hands.  
  
“Bad news?” Optimus asked, with a sort of dark, resigned humor.  
  
“It’s news. I’m not sure what it means.” Ratchet offlined his optics and leaned back, hiding behind his palm. “Primes don’t give up the Matrix, you know. They die, and it gets passed on. What happened to you? It’s unprecedented. You shouldn’t have survived what Megatron did, but you’re made of sterner stuff.”  
  
“And I had a very good medic,” Optimus murmured, patting Ratchet on the knee. “So, this is because of the Matrix. Or the lack of one?”  
  
Ratchet lowered his hand and rested it over Optimus’. “That would be my professional opinion. Your coding is accustomed to having one. Your current frame is designed to feed it. You’re subconsciously searching for something that isn’t there anymore.”  
  
“What can be done?” Soundwave sat on the berth on Optimus’ other side, resting a hand on Optimus’ thigh.  
  
Ratchet sighed. “I don’t know. We need to up the grade of energon you consume at least, as well as add supplements to it. I’ll look into surgery, see if removing the Matrix mounts will help. I’ll also ask Perceptor to look into your coding. Maybe we can carefully delete the strings related to housing the Matrix.”  
  
“Or find another Matrix,” Optimus said, but it was clear the suggestion was made in jest. As if he wanted to outline how hopeless he found the situation.  
  
“Impossible,” Soundwave rumbled.  
  
“Probably so,” Ratchet agreed. He patted Optimus’ hand. “We’ll look for a solution. There must be something. Until then, I’ll prescribe some supplements, and I suggest you consume medical grade for the future.”  
  
Optimus’ field flicked with disappointment. “Yes, Ratchet.”  
  
“I know it tastes like slag, and I’m sorry.” Ratchet stood, his processor already whirling with possibilities, solutions, potential. He had to find a way to help Optimus. There had to be something. “Don’t worry, Optimus. You’re not dying on me yet.”  
  
He wouldn’t allow it.  
  
“I trust you, Ratchet.”  
  
“Good. Soundwave? A word?” Ratchet headed for the door without offering Soundwave the chance to argue otherwise. He could count on Optimus for a great many things, but when it came to looking after himself, well, Ratchet knew there was someone else to give that charge.  
  
Soundwave followed him out, leaving Laserbeak with Optimus.  
  
“Something to add?” Soundwave asked.  
  
Ratchet sighed and scrubbed his forehead, where an ache built in his processor. “I’ll send Aid here with a crate of med-grade. Make sure he drinks it daily. It’ll help with the fatigue. Keep an optic out for any other unusual symptoms.”  
  
“Unusual?” Soundwave echoed, and his worry spiked.  
  
Ratchet paced back and forth a little, restless energy rattling through his legs. “If he starts forgetting things… if he starts losing his balance for no reason. Loses consciousness. If he… If he…”  
  
Primus. He could rattle off a whole string of symptoms, each more terrible than the last. The worst case scenario ran at the back of his mind until all he could see was Optimus lying cold and gray, just like all the other victims of Megatron he couldn’t save.  
  
“Understood,” Soundwave said.  
  
Ratchet shook his head. “Yeah, you would. You know enough about field medicine to know what to look for at least.” He cycled a ventilation to get himself back under control. He didn’t want to worry Soundwave.  
  
They would fix this.  
  
“I’ll see what Glyph can dig up, too. I know he’s found some ancient archives. There has to be something about the Matrix,” Ratchet added.  
  
Soundwave nodded, and he gave Ratchet a look, intercepting him mid-pace to lay a gentle hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. Ten years post war and Ratchet no longer flinched but accepted it as a welcome comfort.  
  
“Ratchet is trusted,” he droned.  
  
“Let’s just hope I can prove why.” Ratchet smiled and patted Soundwave’s hand. “Go. Take care of Optimus. I’ll let everyone know to push the meeting back. No one argues with me.”  
  
Amusement floated out from Soundwave. “They know better,” he said.  
  
“Damn right.”  
  


~

  
  
The memo hit Jazz’s inbox immediately after he sunk into Hot Rod, and his resulting groan was both because of the high priority message, and because of the hot clamp of Hot Rod around his spike, the speedster writhing beneath him and looking quite delicious.  
  
Jazz paused, buried deep, and pressed his forehead to Hot Rod’s shoulder, taking a klik to bend his focus back to his berthpartner, before his concern about Optimus overrode him. Because why else would Ratchet delay the meeting?  
  
Hot Rod growled in his intake, and dug his heels into Jazz’s aft. “I know that face,” he grumbled as he pressed in with his thighs. “That’s your emergency ping face. This isn’t fair!”  
  
Jazz chuckled and nuzzled his way to Hot Rod’s intake. “Know me so well, is that it?” he asked as he started to rock his hips, slow and steady, more of a tease than anything. “Because that ping means I get to stay in the berth and do this.” He thrust harder, deeper, and Hot Rod’s backstrut arched, his valve rippling, a pretty moan spilling out of his intake.  
  
“I can forgive you then,” Hot Rod panted. His optics were dark with hunger, his faceplate flushed, and he wrapped himself around Jazz, pulling Jazz down to him. “But maybe we should change it up then?”  
  
“Change it up?” Jazz hummed, skimming his lips along the curve of Hot Rod’s jaw.  
  
Hot Rod laughed and rolled them, the berth rattling in its moors, as Hot Rod nearly spilled them over the edge, but managed land astride Jazz without tossing them from the berth. He slipped Jazz back in him and settled, hands on Jazz’s belly, a smirk of pride on his lips.  
  
“Yeah. That’s better,” Hot Rod said, and he stole his own rhythm, twisting and grinding down, stirring Jazz in his valve.  
  
“You’re so impatient,” Jazz groaned, but his hands found Hot Rod’s hips, not to guide the rhythm, but because he quite liked Hot Rod in his grasp. The speedster had a perfect dance all on his own.  
  
Hot Rod curled a hand around his own spike, shuddering as he started to stroke himself, little drips of pre-fluid landing on Jazz’s plating. “I’ve learned I gotta be quick, if I don’t want to be left in the berth without an overload,” he said, teasingly.  
  
Jazz still felt the sting of the remark. It had happened on a few occasions, and while Jazz was appropriately apologetic afterward and Hot Rod kindly forgiving, Jazz couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again.  
  
Then again, he hadn’t promised anything. They were friends with benefits, sharing a berth more often than not, exclusive by accident rather than mutual agreement.  
  
“That won’t happen this time,” Jazz promised and rolled up to meet Hot Rod’s downward grind, the both of them groaning in tandem. A flicker of blue charge danced over Hot Rod’s flame-inspired deco.  
  
Couldn’t seem to give it up, that one. Year after year after year, he kept the flames, even if others teased him, and now it was as vital to Hot Rod as Jazz’s visor and Sunstreaker’s head fins and Wheeljack’s indicators.  
  
Jazz loved them.  
  
“Prove it,” Hot Rod challenged, as if he wasn’t already spilling slick over his fingers, valve soaked and needy, his field flush with an oncoming overload. His spoiler twitched, and Jazz longed to drag his fingers over their edges, if only they weren’t so far away.  
  
Jazz grinned. “With pleasure.” He planted his feet in the berth and thrust up hard, bouncing Hot Rod on his spike, provoking a low moan from the mech.  
  
Hot Rod tilted forward, one hand bracing on the berth, the other stroking his spike with abandon as he rode the movement of Jazz’s hips. Charge sizzled out of his valve, tingling across Jazz’s spike.  
  
Hot Rod groaned, lips parted as he panted, optics glazed with desire, and it ought to be illegal, how sexy he was. How much Jazz wanted to pin him down and frag Hot Rod until he went limp and sated and gave him that lazy smile of satisfaction.  
  
“S’good,” Hot Rod moaned, because he had no qualms about sharing his pleasure vocally, about taking what he wanted and giving it in return, about grinding down and rolling his hips, chasing his pleasure with single-minded intent until he shuddered, spurting across Jazz’s abdomen, his valve clamping down and squeezing Jazz’s spike with rhythmic pleasure.  
  
“My turn,” Jazz said, and he surged upward, rolling them over, pinning Hot Rod beneath him, his spike finding home in Hot Rod’s valve with ease.  
  
Hot Rod moaned and scrabbled at his armor, fingers finding purchase in Jazz’s seams, his legs wrapping around Jazz’s waist as he rode each thrust. Lust flickered in his optics, his valve squeezing tight, charge riding over his armor, building him toward a second overload. Kid was a testament to his designation, careening right into more pleasure so soon after acquiring the first.  
  
“Harder,” Hot Rod demanded as the berth rattled, and Jazz’s knees dug into the plush surface, their arrays impacting, sending hot licks of fire up Jazz’s backstrut.  
  
He groaned and slammed into Hot Rod, managing only a handful of thrusts before his control slipped out of his grasp and he overloaded, spurting charged fluid deep into Hot Rod, who tossed his head back and overloaded again, thighs clamping around Jazz’s waist. He hooked his hand around the back of Jazz’s head and yanked him down into a sloppy kiss, their denta clacking together, his lips slick and warm.  
  
“Mm, that’s much better than finishing on my own,” Hot Rod said as he tangled his legs with Jazz as if trying to anchor him down into the berth.  
  
Jazz chuckled and nosed into Hot Rod’s intake, dragging his denta along the hot cables. His spike twitched against Hot Rod, as if debating a second round. The meeting had been postponed, not canceled.  
  
He’d have to leave the berth eventually.  
  
“That’s the downsides of being a member of high command,” Jazz lamented and snuggled in against Hot Rod, the other mech larger and heavier than himself, but not enough to be a deterrent. He liked how easily he could toss Hot Rod around, despite the size difference.  
  
“And you wonder why I keep turning down Kup’s invitation to lead a squad.” Hot Rod snorted and wiggled, trying to sink deeper into the cushion. “Responsibility? No, thanks.”  
  
Jazz hummed and traced casual circles on the leading flat of Hot Rod’s spoiler. “You’d be good at it,” he said, a comment he’d made before, while swallowing down the rest of it. He secretly thought Hot Rod was less concerned about the weight of responsibility, and more concerned with his fear of failure.  
  
“History has shown that’s not exactly the case,” Hot Rod said, and his tone was tight, a rigidity flowing over his armor in a wave before he relaxed again. “You’re off-shift tomorrow, right? Wanna go racing on the Badlands?”  
  
Jazz allowed the change of subject. Truthfully, he had no right to counsel Hot Rod either way. They weren’t, technically, partners. He wasn’t Hot Rod’s commanding officer. Neither was he Hot Rod’s adopted sibling, and Springer disliked Jazz enough as it was.  
  
Jazz had no right to push. So he didn’t.  
  
“Ya really love to court danger, don’t you?” Jazz asked.  
  
Not that the Badlands were any more dangerous than any other uninhabited sector of Cybertron. The returning Cybertronians still clustered around Polyhex, Nova Cronum, and Iacon. While occasional scouting parties, historical researchers, and scientists ventured into the rest of Cybertron in well-armed bunches, they’d learned to stick to the inhabited zones.  
  
Who knew that bombarding their planet with radiation of all flavors would cause new and unusual fauna to pop up? Hungry things with a taste for living metal, especially sparks, who’d survived this long by snacking on the radioactive fallout clinging to the buildings.  
  
The Badlands were a wide vista of completely flat wasteland, long rendered to ash and soot and debris by some massive weapon. Jazz couldn’t remember who’d fired it. The Decepticons, maybe, as it was marginally closer to Iacon than any of the other cities. It didn’t matter who was to blame really.  
  
“I’ve never been attacked once out there. Not even the scraplets like to go there. Too much open ground,” Hot Rod protested, and he gave Jazz a crooked grin. “Why? Afraid I’m going to win again?”  
  
“You are such a cocky little thing,” Jazz said and stole Hot Rod’s lips for a kiss as Hot Rod laughed into his mouth.  
  
“You like that I’m cocky,” Hot Rod said against his lips, rolling up against Jazz as if to make a point, his fans roaring and his frame still radiating heat. He fit his designation for certain.  
  
“True.” Jazz nipped at Hot Rod’s bottom lip and pulled back with a grin. “Yeah. Let’s race tomorrow. You ‘n me.”  
  
“No Blurr this time,” Hot Rod agreed, and his fingers danced along Jazz’s transformation seams, making him shiver with sensation. “You ‘n me.” He squirmed beneath Jazz with a little sigh. “Suppose you gotta leave now?”  
  
Jazz’s spark gave a little twang. He checked his chronometer. “I got time,” he said, planting a quick kiss on Hot Rod’s lips before shimmying downward, nudging between Hot Rod’s thighs. “Think I got some makin’ up to do, yeah?” he asked as he trailed his fingers over Hot Rod’s valve, still bared and sticky, his folds plump and eager.  
  
Hot Rod shivered. “I mean, you know, I’m not gonna argue otherwise…” He parted his thighs wider, hips canted hopefully.  
  
Jazz cupped his hips and bent over, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of Hot Rod’s half-pressurized spike before sliding his lips further down, nuzzling into Hot Rod’s folds to find the cluster of nodes at the apex of his valve.  
  
“I have enough time for this,” Jazz purred, the vibrations stirring against Hot Rod’s valve before he started to lick, long sweeps of his glossa, tasting himself and Hot Rod mixed together.  
  
Hot Rod moaned and rolled up to meet him, his thighs twitching against Jazz’s shoulders, his hands fisting the berthcover. It was impossible for Hot Rod to be still when getting pleasured, and Jazz savored his energetic motions. Responsive berth partners were the best, and Hot Rod was at the top of the list.  
  
He was never afraid to vocalize what he wanted.  
  
“Right there, yes, oh please,” he begged, pushing his anterior node at Jazz’s lips, lubricant dribbling out of his valve as his field rose thick and heated in the air, surrounding them. He cradled Jazz’s head, less to force, and more to guide, to encourage.  
  
Jazz fragging loved it.  
  
He dove in, licking and sucking and lapping, as Hot Rod squirmed and panted and moaned for him, babbling a string of appreciation and delight. Maybe Jazz was going to be a little late for the meeting, because he had the sudden urge to drag this out. He wanted to keep Hot Rod on the edge, keep him squirming and flush with pleasure, just to hear him scream with release, just to sit and watch him smile dopily, all languid in the berth.  
  
Yeah.  
  
He could be a little late for that.  
  


~

  
  
“I can’t believe this!” Starscream hissed as he waved his datapad and stalked around the small conference room, the vidscreen flashing a ‘hold’ symbol at him, as it had for the past ten minutes. “The first time I’m _early_ for this fragging meeting, and it’s been postponed.”  
  
Grimlock, sitting at the table nearby, propped his chin on his hand and watched his second stalk around the room, wings twitching. Affection bubbled in his spark. Was he annoyed by the delay?  
  
Not a bit.  
  
Ratchet had sent out the memo, and Grimlock knew, if Ratchet had called for a delay, it had to be something serious. Probably something with Optimus. He was so fragile these days. Not without cause, but still…  
  
“Are you more angry we could’ve stayed in the berth or angry that you can’t gloat about how early you were this time?” Grimlock asked.  
  
Starscream’s face flushed prettily, which meant it was probably a bit of both. He tossed the datapad onto the table with a clatter, folded his arms, and cocked one hip. He thought the pose made him look dangerous, and maybe it did to some mechs.  
  
To Grimlock, it made him want to sweep Starscream up, lay him out on the table, and bring him to three overloads in sharp succession. Primus, those hips. Grimlock loved those hips.  
  
“--paying any attention!”  
  
Grimlock cycled his optical feed and dragged his admiration up to Starscream’s face. “I’m sorry, what were you ranting?”  
  
Starscream rolled his optics and stalked across the room, toward Grimlock, which was an improvement. “You know, Thundercracker told me that once I mated you, it would all go downhill. I can see he was right.”  
  
“Was he.”  
  
Grimlock waited, frame tensed to strike.  
  
“Clearly, he was, since you’re so amused by this whole situation, you can’t even listen to me,” Starscream said with an offended huff.  
  
Step, step -- snatch!  
  
Grimlock grabbed his Seeker by the waist and pulled Starscream into his lap. “You were ranting,” Grimlock said, burying his face against Starscream’s intake. “You do that. I’m not sorry for admiring you in the meantime.”  
  
Starscream settled astride Grimlock’s lap, still vibrating with irritation, but it wasn’t aimed at Grimlock, so he considered that a win. “Admiring what in particular?”  
  
“Your hips.” Grimlock cupped them demonstratively, giving those slim hips a squeeze. “In particular, the lovely pair of legs attached to them.” He swept his palms down Starscream’s thighs before sliding them back up again. “And how much I love when they’re wrapped around me.”  
  
Starscream snorted. “You can’t win me with flattery.”  
  
“Can’t I?” Grimlock would grin if he could, before he touched on a moment of seriousness. “If there’s a delay, you know that means Optimus is sick.”  
  
“Again.” Starscream sighed and threw his arms over Grimlock’s shoulder, shimmying closer until their chestplates bumped. “That’s what… three times in the past five years?”  
  
“Four,” Grimlock corrected quietly. He pressed his forehead to Starscream’s, dimming his visor so as to enjoy the grasp of Starscream’s field around him. “He hides it well in public, but you can’t hide much from a Dinobot.”  
  
“It’s sweet that you worry about him. I thought you didn’t like Optimus,” Starscream murmured as he pressed a kiss to the curve of Grimlock’s jaw, around his mouthguard. There was intent in the lazy kiss, and the way he subtly shifted his hips in Grimlock’s lap.  
  
Grimlock stroked Starscream’s hip gimbals with his thumb and tugged Starscream closer, eyeing the tempting flick-twitch of Starscream’s wings. “I liked him less as an Autobot. Now, I see him for the best leader for the Autobots.”  
  
“Makes sense.” Starscream stroked the back of his neck, right at a sensitive juncture of joint plates. “Hmm. We have a long wait ahead of us. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”  
  
Grimlock chuckled and swept his hands up Starscream’s back, aiming for his wing hinges. “That’s a good question. Any thoughts?”  
  
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Starscream pouted, and times like these, Grimlock wished he had a mouth so he could nibble on that pout.  
  
“The sound of you begging is always nice,” Grimlock said as he tweaked a wing hinge and Starscream shuddered in his lap. “The way you sing--”  
  
He cut off as his comm chimed. He recognized the ident code, and he intended to ignore it, but it was impossible to hide the full-shiver Shockwave always provoked in him, and Starscream was too aware of his tells to miss it.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
“Shockwave,” Grimlock said, and Primus, if that wasn’t a way to kill a mood, nothing was.  
  
Starscream shuddered. “What does he want?”  
  
Grimlock didn’t answer, but he did accept the ping, responding with as little politeness as he could get away with. “This had better be important.”  
  
“My research is always important,” Shockwave replied with that indignant tone Grimlock had learned to loathe. Ten years after the fall of the Decepticons, Shockwave’s imprisonment, and highly limited release to continue his work on Grimlock-approved ventures, and Shockwave had yet to learn an ounce of humility.  
  
He was incapable of it, Starscream said. He didn’t have a conscience.  
  
“My sensors are picking up strange readings in the ambient energies of Cybertron,” Shockwave continued, without Grimlock encouraging him. “Specifically centered toward the core.”  
  
“And that’s important why?” Grimlock asked, after repeating Shockwave’s explanation to Starscream, who looked surprised and then thoughtful.  
  
“Because if Cybertron’s core is stirring, it might not be so dead after all,” Starscream commented.  
  
“I have yet to determine the precise reasoning behind the change. When I know more, so shall you. I’m simply keeping you apprised of the situation, per the terms of our arrangement,” Shockwave droned.  
  
Grimlock would have rolled his optics if he could.  
  
“You do that,” Grimlock replied, and ended the comm, shunting anything else Shockwave had to say to a queue. It could be saved for later, as it clearly wasn’t a life or death situation.  
  
Starscream huffed. “He sure has a talent for ruining things.” He scooted back, not enough to slide from Grimlock’s lap, but just enough to prove the building temptation had been shattered.  
  
Fragging Shockwave.  
  
“Do you think it’s important?”  
  
"I'll have to see the data for myself." Starscream leaned against the table, elbows braced on the edge, perfectly balanced to keep from bruising his wings. "I'll look into it after the meeting."  
  
Grimlock nodded, absently rubbing his palms up and down Starscream's thighs. "Then I defer judgment until I see what you think of it."  
  
Starscream's smile was soft and genuine, his field fluttering with affection before it sobered. "You know, he won't always be content with the limited research we give him. Eventually, he'll want more."  
  
"He lives so long as he's useful. He's smart enough to see that." Grimlock rested his hands on Starscream's hips. "But if he starts to make too much of a ruckus, we have more room in our spark prison." Right next to Sixshot, Overlord, and Blackshadow -- three of Shockwave's creations. It would be a family reunion.  
  
"Cold storage for a time when he might be useful again. Have I mentioned how much I love that pragmatism of yours?" Starscream leaned forward, putting his arms around Grimlock's shoulders, pressing their frames together again. "It's one of your best features."  
  
"I have a lot of best features," Grimlock said.  
  
Starscream chuckled. "Yes, you do." He teased a talon along one of Grimlock's transformation seams. "And if you're really, really good, I might even let you frag me before the meeting."  
  
"I can be pretty persuasive," Grimlock said, rumbling his engine and dropping his pitch so the bass vibrated through Starscream's frame.  
  
His Seeker shivered, wings twitching. "I'm listening."  
  
The conference room door opened, Cyclonus stepping aside, face buried in a datapad, barely paying any attention. Grimlock sighed. Starscream sat back again. The chair creaked.  
  
Cyclonus looked up. Irritation flickered through his optics. "It should say something that I am the one repeatedly reminding you that the conference room is not your private berth."  
  
Starscream stretched his arms over his head, unconcerned. "Your exasperation would hold up, if I hadn't caught you _in flagrante_ with a certain cute minibot."  
  
Cyclonus flushed, as much as Cyclonus was able. The datapad twitched in his hands. He coughed. "Be that as it may, perhaps we could do some work before the meeting starts."  
  
"It's been postponed," Grimlock pointed out.  
  
"Yes, I'm aware." Cyclonus sat in his usual chair, and the only sign that their intimacy offended him was in the barely present flick of his armor. "There's no reason we can't find something to fill the time."  
  
Starscream shared a glance with Grimlock before he shrugged and slid from Grimlock's lap, taking his own seat. "Very well, Cyclonus. What do you want to discuss?"  
  
Grimlock swallowed a sigh and lamented the loss of Starscream in his lap.  
  
There would always be another time, he supposed.  
  


~

  
  
The Decepticon medbay was getting far too crowded in Knock Out's opinion.  
  
He'd secretly celebrated when Spinister didn't stick around long, opting instead to work under Krok at the Hospitality House. But then Buildup and Scalpel arrived, and Knock Out had three Decepticon medics of small stature running around underfoot.  
  
They were bad enough.  
  
The last migration, however, brought Flatline, and there was no other Decepticon medic Knock Out loathed as much as Flatline.  
  
The medbay was not big enough for both of their egos.  
  
Knock Out searched the supply cabinet for heli-grade air filters for the third time before having to concede they weren't in it. Where he'd stocked them himself just yesterday. Because this was the air filter cabinet, conveniently located to the rest of the maintenance supplies.  
  
Which made sense.  
  
Knock Out's engine growled. He cycled a ventilation. His hands tightened around the doors of the cabinet.  
  
He would not blow his top. He would not cause a scene. He would not rip Flatline's face off.  
  
A hand rested on his arm, and it was only the familiar field which kept Knock Out from retaliating with violence. "He moved them last night," Breakdown said, and he held out a new air filter.  
  
Knock Out slammed the cabinet shut. "Thank you." He took the air filter, saving his violence for Flatline. "I am going to kill him," he said, through clenched denta.  
  
Breakdown grinned. "I don't think Lord Grimlock would like that."  
  
"Well, if Lord Grimlock would get his plated aft down here and set some rules, perhaps it wouldn't be an issue." Knock Out huffed and shuttered his optics, cycling a few more ventilations.  
  
This medbay wasn't big enough for all of them. Someone had to go.  
  
"You still thinkin' about that invite?" Breakdown asked.  
  
"Times like this, I most certainly am." Knock Out scrubbed his face, gathered himself, and headed back to exam room gamma where Vortex waited for said new air filter with a surprising patience. "Among other things."  
  
"Like?"  
  
"I'm a surgeon." Sort of. "I'm a detail specialist." Knock Out waved his hands. "All of this? Maintenance checks and flushes and--" He shuddered. "I know how to do it. I can do it. They needed me to do it. But I don't _want_? to do it."  
  
"Then don't."  
  
Knock Out stopped mid-stride, reaching for the door. He turned back toward Breakdown. "Just quit?"  
  
"No, don't just quit." Breakdown took the air filter back from him, and Knock Out didn't register it enough to protest. "Here. I'm credited for maintenance. I'll install this. You go talk to Snarl."  
  
Knock Out cycled his optics as Breakdown keyed open the door. "I'm pretty sure both you and him are feelin' the same way, and I think he's gotta solution you'll both like."  
  
"What about you?" Knock Out asked.  
  
Breakdown shrugged, and there was a quiet smile on his lips. "I like his plan. Besides, I'm happy wherever you both are."  
  
And with that he was gone, leaving Knock Out flummoxed, his anger forgotten. Snarl with plans? Breakdown so peacefully happy? What was Cybertron coming to?  
  
Knock Out shook his head and left the storage room, taking a sharp left toward the office Snarl had claimed for himself some years back, turning it into a repair room. It was the very definition of organized chaos, with crates and crates of parts lying on every surface and under tables and on shelves, all expertly labeled.  
  
Snarl had dragged in every piece of useful shelving he could find, turning the office into a maze of spare parts, and in the very back was his quote-unquote workshop -- a massive desk he'd acquired, tools hanging on the wall above it, and bright lamps gleaming down on his workspace. He'd become their in-house technician, fixing any and every piece of tech Knock Out brought to him.  
  
And even designing a few new ones in his down time.  
  
The air smelled of soldering and solvent, and Knock Out immediately tuned his nasal receptors to their barest intake. Snarl never seemed to mind the odor, but it made Knock Out's head swim.  
  
"Snarl?"  
  
"In back!"  
  
Knock Out picked his way through the narrow paths, occasionally ducking to avoid bits of wire and tubing sticking out of various crates. He watched his feet, narrowly avoiding a sticky spill of congealed oil -- probably dripped out of some old tubing -- and sighed. Like creator, like sparkling. Wheeljack and Snarl had a lot in common.  
  
"Breakdown said you had a plan," Knock Out said as he came face to face with a shelf that hadn't been there last time he came through here, so he backtracked for another route. "And that I should hear it."  
  
"It good plan," Snarl said. "Make you, me, and Breakdown happy. Happier. Happiest." He snorted, and Knock Out could imagine the toothy grin he probably sported.  
  
"Well, I'm listening," Knock Out replied as he inched around another shelf and finally squeezed into Snarl's workspace. He twisted to examine himself, and was relieved to find he'd made it through with nary a smudge. "This place is filthy. You owe me a polish later."  
  
"Him Breakdown help," Snarl promised as he waved Knock Out over, pushing up a pair of magnifying goggles. There was a bit of soot around them, and it was unfairly adorable. "See this?" He pointed at a sheet of thin transteel.  
  
Knock Out picked it up, and tilted his head. "Are these blueprints?"  
  
"Yep!" Snarl's voice and field spiked with glee. "For new shop."  
  
It was three floors, as far as Knock Out could tell since he wasn't an architect. The top floor seemed to be some kind of living space. There was an inside and an outside rampwell, though the outer one only went to the second floor. The first one appeared to be a clinic of some kind. The second floor vaguely resembled Snarl's current workshop.  
  
"Wait," Knock Out said, his spark strobing with delight. "Is this for us?"  
  
"All of us," Snarl said proudly. He leaned over, tapping the schematics. "This floor mine, for fixing shop. This floor yours and Breakdown's, for fixing mechs and designing them. This floor ours." He tapped the topmost floor, with the generously sized berthroom and an equally generous washrack. "It be in Bridge-zone."  
  
Bridge-zone. The closest thing they had to truly neutral territory. The collection of apartments and shops that had sprung up around the spacebridge and spread outward from there, full of Cybertronians who didn't want to bear a badge or claim any affiliation, who just wanted to live their new lives as peacefully as possible.  
  
"This is incredible," Knock Out breathed, feeling an excitement he hadn't in a long, long time. "Snarl, this is a brilliant idea."  
  
Snarl ducked his head, heat tinting his cheeks. "Just wanted place for us."  
  
For them and only them. No bosses. No allegiances. No afts rearranging his workspace. No Flatline. Just the three of them, carving out a life for themselves and for each other.  
  
"It's perfect," Knock Out said. He leaned in, kissed Snarl on the cheek, getting soot on his lips as a result. "I want it."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Positive." Knock Out fingered the schematics again, not hesitating for his own sake but for Snarl's. "You'll be moving away from your brothers."  
  
Snarl lifted his shoulders. "Will live apart, but not be apart. We still brothers. Can always visit home."  
  
Sometimes, Snarl was so brilliantly intelligent, it blew Knock Out’s mind. He loved Snarl for it, as much as Breakdown did, and it made him want to throw anyone else’s snobby remarks back in their place. Knock Out had, once or twice, made an example of a rude patient.  
  
He was a medic, not a saint. If they wanted medical care with scruples, they could hike their afts on to Polyhex, and then tell Ratchet why Knock Out had gouged out their optic. Ratchet might be gentler, but he’d curse their audial feeds out.  
  
“Think about it,” Snarl said, pushing the schematics in a gesture for Knock Out to take them. “Building already picked out. Just gotta agree.”  
  
“I want it,” Knock Out murmured, a sudden longing rising up in his spark, trying to swallow him whole. He didn’t know it was something he wanted, this domestic life, this shop all his own with his two partners, but suddenly, it was all he could dream. “You and me and Breakdown and this. I want it.”  
  
Snarl closed his fingers over Knock Out’s and drew his hand closer, lips skimming over Knock Out’s knuckles in a show of gentleness very few got to witness. “Then we do it.”  
  


****


	2. Chapter 2

True to form, Optimus would not stay down for long, no matter how much Ratchet encouraged it. Soundwave would have preferred to push the weekly meeting to the next day, but a few hours delay was enough for Optimus.  
  
A few hours delay and a cube of medical grade, liberally sprinkled with various metals for optimal recovery and energy endurance, and Optimus declared himself fit for duty. Or fit enough to attend a meeting at least. Soundwave knew better than to argue. Laserbeak assigned herself Optimus' nurse and perched on his shoulder, monitoring his health with a sharp optic.  
  
She was the only one Optimus would let nanny him without fussing.  
  
'Optimus is stubborn,' she told Soundwave with a little laugh and a twinkle in her optic. 'But you're stubborn, too.'  
  
They met in the conference room, Ultra Magnus already waiting -- seemingly had been waiting since the meeting was first delayed, judging by the array of datapads around him.  
  
"It was easier than returning to my office," Ultra Magnus explained as Optimus gave him a look.  
  
Optimus held up a hand. "Far be it from me to judge. Anything of note?"  
  
"Some good news." Ultra Magnus tapped one of the datapads. "We received a longform transmission overnight from one of our units. Six more Autobots coming home."  
  
"That is good news." Optimus slipped into the chair beside his second, sliding the datapad into his hands. "I'm not familiar with these designations, but still. Good news."  
  
Ultra Magnus hummed his agreement.  
  
Soundwave busied himself with making sure the conference screen was ready to go, updated, and no wires had come loose since last week. He powered it on and dialed into the conference channel, where a logo shaped like a miniature Cybertron bounced around the screen -- waiting.  
  
"How are you feeling, Optimus?" Ultra Magnus asked.  
  
"Ratchet overreacted. It was just a little fatigue."  
  
'White lies,' Laserbeak sighed across the comm. 'Optimus still hates admitting when he's weak.'  
  
'Fault: Megatron's,' Soundwave reminded her. 'Wounds run deep.'  
  
"Still. We are no longer at war. You should take time to recover if you need it," Ultra Magnus said, just as the door slid open behind them, admitting a lithe black and white frame, music pouring tinny through the speakers.  
  
"The fun has arrived!" Jazz declared as he came sliding into the room, coming to a rest just behind Optimus' chair. "Morning, OP. All's well that end's well?"  
  
Ultra Magnus glared.  
  
Optimus, however, offered Jazz a smile. "I'm fine, I assure you." He tilted his head. "You're in a spry mood. Do we have someone to thank?"  
  
Laserbeak tittered.  
  
Jazz flashed his visor in a wink. "A gentlemech never, never tells." He hopped into the chair on Optimus' other side, leaning back to brace his feet on the edge of the table, before a stern look from Ultra Magnus made him drop them.  
  
"Ten years of this," Ultra Magnus sighed. "You'd think we could have a little decorum by now."  
  
"Ten years of this," Jazz echoed. "You'd think you could have pulled that stick out of your aft by now." He grinned a blazing grin.  
  
Ultra Magnus twitched. It was the only sign he ever gave to show Jazz had gotten under his plating and irritated him.  
  
"Connection pending," Soundwave reminded them, hoping to forestall the inevitable snipefest or argument.  
  
"Thank you, Soundwave." Optimus looked at him, amusement dancing in his optics.  
  
Ultra Magnus sighed again.  
  
Jazz grinned, proud of himself, as he always was when he tried to get a rise out of Ultra Magnus and succeeded. It was almost unfair. Ultra Magnus truly had relaxed a lot over the past decade, but there was something about Jazz that rankled him from the tops of his antennae to the tips of his feet.  
  
The conference screen flickered. The bouncing Cybertron vanished, and in its place, the monitor split in two, displaying the Decepticon command on the right, and the Neutral command on the left. Starscream, Grimlock, and Cyclonus perched around a table not unlike the one in the Autobot conference room, a massive banner with the Decepticon sigil hanging behind them. Skybyte and Xaaron were far more subtle about their allegiances. Meanwhile, the Autobots had a tasteful Auto-badge inscribed into the table -- present, but not too obvious.  
  
For once, Metalhawk did not lurk in the background. Sometimes, he was present. Sometimes, not. He'd clearly fallen out of favor with the Neutrals, though he was considered a hero to many of them. He hadn't faded into obscurity, but he was present on occasion. Neutral leadership valued his insight, his advice, but Metalhawk had no other effect on the political status quo. He had been effectively neutered, which was the only reason Autobot and Decepticon leadership tolerated his presence.  
  
Metalhawk also didn't appear to like Jazz very much. It seemed to be going around.  
  
"I hope the delay didn't inconvenience anyone too much," Optimus began by way of greeting. He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. "I do apologize. I was indisposed."  
  
"Nothing serious, I hope," Xaaron asked, his voice coming through with a dull echo. Their communications specialist technician was not as good as Soundwave. Then again, the Autobots did hold the monopoly on skilled comm techs.  
  
Optimus shook his head. "Nothing to be concerned with.” He smiled in such a political manner, Soundwave was proud. “Why don’t we get this conference started so we can finish as soon as possible, yes?"  
  
"Agreed," Starscream said, one wing offering a dismissive flick. "The first order of business is to come to an agreement about where we should direct our expansions. Which city do we agree to annex next?"  
  
"Tagan Heights is closest," Ultra Magnus answered with a frown, shuffling through his datapads until he produced one. "But Kalis is less damaged."  
  
“There’s a reason Kalis suffered less damage. It was neither strategic nor held anything of importance. If we can salvage the refineries at Tagan Heights, we would all be in a better position,” Starscream pointed out.  
  
Coincidentally, Tagan Heights was closer to Decepticon territory than Kalis. Starscream didn’t point that out. Soundwave didn’t expect him to.  
  
“Have we done a survey of Tagan Heights? To determine whether or not there is anything to salvage?” Xaaron asked. “Perhaps that should be the next step before we make any decisions.”  
  
“I love a mech with some common sense,” Jazz drawled with a chipper note to his voice. “Bee and Rumble’s back from Earth for a bit. They are the best we got for surveying since Hound’s stickin’ to Earth.” He cocked his head. “Unless you got someone better, Xaaron?”  
  
The gold mech waved a hand. “No. If one of yours wants to venture into the uninhabited lands, far be it from me to stop you.”  
  
“We appreciate your trust,” Optimus said.  
  
Starscream snorted, but mercifully didn’t comment. Ten years had done a lot for him as well, and Soundwave suspected Grimlock’s respect helped with that. All Starscream had ever wanted was to be given respect and courtesy. Soundwave wondered why Megatron could never see that.  
  
“Next on the agenda, I suggest we discuss the current progress in unearthing the starbridge as they still remain our best bet for shifting Cybertron to a more hospitable galaxy,” Cyclonus droned as he marked off something on his datapad. He and Ultra Magnus got along swimmingly, to no one’s surprise. “So far, we’ve uncovered eight of the branches, and Shockwave informs us there are four more, plus the thirteenth.”  
  
“Thirteenth?” Ultra Magnus echoed. He frowned and consulted another datapad. “When last we spoke, there were twelve.”  
  
“The thirteenth is the control bridge,” Starscream said in a bored tone. He examined the tips of his talons, wings twitching. “It’s no doubt located as close to Cybertron’s core as possible, since it’s also the focus of the bridge itself.”  
  
The starbridge, Soundwave remembered, had been the main argument for keeping Shockwave alive. He had, thanks to Glyph’s and Cliffjumper’s painstaking research, discovered the existence of it, the use of it, and the galaxy which would be suitable for them to permanently house Cybertron. Shockwave had also helped determine the location of the branches, which would come together to form the starbridge, which was in itself, a massive spacebridge, capable of moving something the size of Cybertron across the universe.  
  
It also required calculations the likes of which made Soundwave’s head twirl, but encouraged the scientists to become giddy with excitement. It was the only time he’d seen Perceptor and Brainstorm willingly engage in scientific parlay with Shockwave.  
  
Until the first starbridge branch was uncovered -- under Iacon no less -- everyone had been skeptical of its existence. After that, anticipation replaced skepticism, and there was now an active, concerted effort to unearth the rest.  
  
The Constructicons had come in very handy for this. They were scattered around the planet at various dig sites, carefully instructing crews to excavate the branches, though they were not without their oversight. For every Constructicon out in the field, an Autobot or Decepticon captain was there to keep watch.  
  
They were stretched thin, but needs must.  
  
Their population was low. Distressingly low. Fixing that, however, was something for which not even Shockwave or the historians could find a solution.  
  
Xaaron frowned and folded his arms over his chassis. “And you’re certain we can operate this control panel? That we have the energetic means to do so?”  
  
“I’m certain of nothing. I wasn’t even certain the damn things existed until we found the first one.” Starscream flicked his fingers, narrowing his optics. “I do, however, trust the calculations of our scientific minds, and I’m confident we can figure it out.”  
  
“We shouldn’t trust anything the Quintessons left us,” Skybyte muttered, one of the few still alive who was old enough to remember the age when Cybertron was under Quintesson rule.  
  
"If you have any better ideas, I'm listening," Starscream said as he made a vague gesture to the whole of Cybertron. "We're trying to move a planet here, but by all means, do tell us a better plan."  
  
Skybyte pressed his lips together.  
  
"We are taking every precaution," Ultra Magnus said in a dull voice which always managed to quell rising tensions. Had a knack for that, he did. He was a figure who commanded respect across factional lines.  
  
"Including this 'guardian' the texts speak of?" Xaaron asked, his tone curious rather than argumentative. "Everything else has proven accurate, within reason, which suggests the guardian exists as well."  
  
"I've read those texts myself. They are very unclear as to the identity or guise of the guardian. It could be a lock, or a trap, or something mechanized. Or nothing, just empty threats to keep nosy mechs away," Cyclonus said with a roll of his shoulders. "Either way, I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle."  
  
Xaaron nodded. "Very well. Then might I propose our next topic be the discussion of our population numbers which remain-"  
  
"--distressingly low," Optimus finished for him, his tone quiet and mournful. Soundwave knew Optimus grieved every Cybertronian lost to the war, and especially, so many of his fallen Autobot friends.  
  
There were not enough apologies in the world to earn forgiveness for such a thing. Some days, Soundwave wondered how he was lucky enough to earn not only Optimus' forgiveness, but the gift of his affection as well.  
  
"Cybertronians continue to trickle in across the factional lines," Ultra Magnus said, shifting to a third datapad. He was always the most expertly prepared for these meetings. "The ratios tend to hold steady with a 50-30-20 percentage across the board of Neutral, Decepticon, and Autobot respectively. We still, however, barely account for the smallest percentage of what the population used to be."  
  
"We are, as a species, endangered," Starscream drummed his fingers on the table, his brow drawn, pensive.  
  
Beside Starscream, Grimlock had yet to speak and looked attentive, but Soundwave wondered if he were sleeping behind the visor. These meetings bored the Decepticon commander, and Soundwave had caught a few subspace transmissions between Grimlock and others of conversational asides which had nothing to do with the discussions.  
  
"It is the one area of which we are no closer to find a solution," Xaaron commented. He rubbed his forehead, looking genuinely distraught. "We live long, but we don't live forever."  
  
Optimus spreads his hands. "We're all looking. We're all aware of the importance of this. Our historians scour what texts they've managed to rescue. We ask every new arrival what they know. As it is, we might have to face the truth."  
  
"And what would that be?" Cyclonus asked.  
  
"We did this to ourselves, and there is no solution," Optimus said, his tone appropriately grave.  
  
"How are you, of all mechs, so pessimistic about this?" Starscream demanded.  
  
Optimus shook his head. "The Allspark is gone, lost to the stars. The Wells are dead. The Core is dead. The Primal Spark is dark. The Key to Vector Sigma was destroyed, and Vector Sigma itself as lifeless as the rest of the planet. It's not pessimism, Starscream, it's realism."  
  
"And the Matrix is gone," Grimlock rumbled, speaking for the first time, perhaps because Starscream elbowed him. "And with it, any hope at finding an answer from one of the previous Primes."  
  
"That, too," Optimus said.  
  
It was a sobering thought, a truth hanging heavy in all of their sparks.  
  
"We keep looking anyway," Jazz said as he rested a hand on Optimus' shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze. "There's gotta be somethin' somewhere, and we'll find it."  
  
"On this we agree," Xaaron said with a smile directed at Jazz. "We should keep looking, perhaps assign more mechs to artifact and text recovery if we have any to spare. There are dozens of destroyed museums and libraries. Surely not all of our records were lost."  
  
As he spoke, Soundwave paid keen reference to Optimus, who leaned in to listen Jazz, murmuring in his ear. It seemed an absent action, the way he rubbed at his chestplate, or specifically at the seam covering where the matrix used to be.  
  
Absent but pointed. Optimus was still in pain, still tired, from the loss of it. Though he'd never admit it aloud.  
  
Ratchet was right.  
  
Soundwave did need to keep a closer optic on Optimus. If something was truly wrong, they needed to catch it early. And perhaps finding the solution to helping Optimus would open the path to fixing their population problem.  
  
"On that note, we should also continue to discuss the creation of a united Cybertron," Ultra Magnus said, pulling out his fourth and final datapad. "It's imperative that we continue integrating, allowing those to cast aside their badges as they wish without having to choose a side."  
  
"Isn't that what the space bridge annex is for?" Grimlock asked.  
  
"Yes, but the annex isn't designed to be a city. It needs construction and order. It isn't built to support the population moving there, not to mention the population is growing large enough that eventually, they'll need more than self-governance," Cyclonus pointed out. "As it is, they don't have a voice at this conference, and their use of the space bridge still requires the approval of a committee that they aren't a part of."  
  
"You're suggesting they are large enough to vote for a representative who would then have a seat in this conference?" Ultra Magnus asked.  
  
Cyclonus glanced up, looking at all of them. "Would anyone be opposed to that?"  
  
Silence. No opposition.  
  
"Then yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting."  
  
Xaaron leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers lacing together. "Someone will need to organize the vote. And I suggest candidates be nominated from the populace, by the populace."  
  
"We have to make it clear that they are not _required_ to do any of this. They don't technically fall under any of our leadership, but if they want a say in the future of Cybertron, electing someone to represent them is their best option," Optimus said.  
  
"I agree," Xaaron said. "So let's talk logistics."  
  
It was going to be a long meeting. Laserbeak had already slipped into a doze on Optimus' shoulder. Soundwave kept a cube of medical grade on hand, in case Optimus started to flag. He recorded every word spoken for the record, a copy of which would be sent to each mech present at the end of the conference.  
  
Ten years of this, and Soundwave still marveled at how well it worked.  
  


~

  
  
Jazz was a people person. He liked people. He liked acquaintances. He liked losing himself in the noise and bustle, being invisible while surrounded by crowds.  
  
He loved solitude, too.  
  
There was nothing quite like racing over open road: music pouring from his speakers, gravel crunching under his tires, wind flowing over his roof, debris pinging his chassis, and the sun warming his plating. Or not-sun, depending on Cybertron's current drift among the stars.  
  
Laughter crackled in his comm. "C'mon, Jazz. Keep up!"  
  
Ahead of him, a bright red and orange aft kicked up a dust storm as Hot Rod sped toward the horizon, his glee infectious.  
  
"I'm saving my energy for the actual match," Jazz replied, amused.  
  
Solitude was nice, but far better to share it with a partner, someone he enjoyed being around. Someone he could be himself with, even if a little bit. He still had darker areas, roiling shadows he didn't let Hot Rod see, but he didn't have to pretend with Hot Rod and that was the point.  
  
Hot Rod had seen him mourning, had seen him angry, had seen him grieving, had seen him struggle through the pain of letting Optimus go. He'd seen a Jazz who wasn't always laughing, and a Jazz who wasn't quietly threatening, and he kept coming back to Jazz's berth anyway.  
  
He didn't ask for anything. Jazz loved him for that. Even if he didn't say the words.  
  
"I don't want to hear any excuses when I kick your aft then," Hot Rod said with a playful rev of his engine, his rear end fishtailing before he caught himself.  
  
Cocky brat.  
  
"I'd be impressed if you could, hot stuff," Jazz said and cranked up the music even more, until it throbbed through his whole frame and echoed around the empty landscape, flat for miles in all directions, with only a few ridges popping up on the horizon here and there.  
  
He could taste the fallout in the air -- bitter, spicy -- but his recyclers were quick to catch the radiation and filter it out.  
  
They headed toward the Gorge, the path running alongside the edge was the flattest for miles around and the best for racing. The Gorge itself was deep, comparable to Earth's Grand Canyon, and there were many rumors about how it came to exist. Long before the war, long before the Quintessons, the Gorge had always been there, a huge fissure running through Cybertron.  
  
Hot Rod whooped with glee and put pedal to the metal, engine roaring as he pulled ahead of Jazz, taillights flickering in a teasing wink. His aft swayed again, this time as if on purpose, and Jazz chuckled.  
  
Hot Rod was baiting him.  
  
It might have been working.  
  
The ground rumbled.  
  
Jazz slowed by a fraction. He turned the music down -- had the ground rumbled, or had the bass been too high? Correction: he clicked the music off.  
  
Tires crunched over gravel. Wind whistled over his hood. Hot Rod's engine roared ahead of him, slowing now that he noticed Jazz slowing, too.  
  
"What's wrong?" Hot Rod asked.  
  
The ground rumbled again, louder this time, palpable through his tires. Jazz sent a wide sensor sweep in all directions.  
  
"Hey, the ground is shaking," Hot Rod said. "Does Cybertron get earthquakes?"  
  
"We don't have tectonic activity," Jazz said, absently, because of course Hot Rod wouldn't know. He hadn't been sparked on Cybertron. He'd grown up on a colony.  
  
They were alone. His sensors detected nothing.  
  
Wait.  
  
What was that?  
  
Jazz skidded to a halt and transformed, directing his attention downward, beneath his feet. Something pulsed layers and layers below, but further ahead, further north. Something strong.  
  
It was in Hot Rod's direction.  
  
"I'm coming back to you." Hot Rod spun into a U-turn, kicking up dust and grit, wheels screeching.  
  
The rumbling grew louder, more intense. The ground rolled like it was a living thing, and Jazz had to plant his feet to keep his balance.  
  
"Roddy, be careful," Jazz said.  
  
A sharp crack echoed through the air ahead of him, that of the metal rending open, the ground splitting into a gaping maw, right in Hot Rod's path.  
  
It was too close for him to avoid, too close for him to stop, too close for him to do anything.  
  
He tried.  
  
Hot Rod's brakes screeched, and he must have opted to try root mode because he transformed, but inertia carried him right to the edge of the hole, and another tossing of the ground shook him right over.  
  
"Roddy!"  
  
Jazz ran. It was pointless to do so, but he ran to the hole, pinging Hot Rod frantically, trying to reach him on all channels. He readied his grappling hook.  
  
The ground rumbled and tossed, strong enough to toss him off his feet. Jazz hit the ground hard, wind knocked out of him, head spinning, but he scrambled back to his feet, kept going, just as a sharp and echoing snap filled the air.  
  
 _Grind, grind, grind, ruuuuumble._  
  
Silence.  
  
The hole was gone.  
  
Hot Rod was gone.  
  
Jazz gasped, skidding to a halt where he was sure the hole had been. There were skidmarks leading up this space. Jazz walked right over it without a tremble. It bore his weight. It held him jumping up and down. It held him stomping.  
  
It was as solid as it had been before the rumbling started.  
  
There was an odd smell in the air, foreign. Jazz couldn't place it, but it rested on the tip of his glossa like the feeling of electricity in the air before a lightning strike, mixed with the ozone odor that followed.  
  
"Roddy?" Jazz called aloud and over comms.  
  
Silence. Static. Nothing.  
  
"Roddy!"  
  
Jazz dropped to his knees, scraping at the ground, but it was smooth. Untouched. Like there'd never been a hole.  
  
He jabbed his comm, dialing long distance to home base. "Jazz here. I need -- frag, I don't know what I need. The ground swallowed Hot Rod a few kliks south of the Gorge. Repeat, the ground swallowed Hot Rod south of the Gorge."  
  
Blaster picked up, and thank Primus, it was Blaster. "We read you loud and clear, my mech. I don't know what kind of nonsense is goin' on out there, but help is on the way." There was a moment's pause full of tension-filled hold music before Blaster continued, "Scavenger's been redirected and is on his way. Team's assembling now. Send me your location, and we'll bridge them over."  
  
"Will do."  
  
"Big brother got the news. Just a warning from the friendly air waves," Blaster said, and there was knowing in his tone, because there was little about Jazz Blaster didn't know, and his relationship with Hot Rod was old news to the carrier mech.  
  
Great. Springer knew.  
  
Fan-fragging-tastic.  
  
"Thanks for the warnin'. I'll brace," Jazz sighed. "Over and out."  
  
He stood, spark heavy, glaring hard at the ground. There was still a strange static sensation in the air. But his footing was fine, the ground no longer shook, and Hot Rod was gone.  
  
What the frag was going on here?  
  


~

  
  
Everything hurt.  
  
Hot Rod groaned as he came to consciousness, his entire body aching as though he'd been hit by a shuttle, and then run over for good measure. His ventilations were raspy. The air smelled cold and damp.  
  
He onlined his optics. It was dark. Dark except for the glow offered by his biolights and his optics and -- he clicked them on -- his headlights, ominously pale in the suffocating black. Hot Rod groaned, and it echoed around him.  
  
The rest was silence. Eerie silence.  
  
What the frag happened?  
  
He sat up, gears grinding, joints creaking, frame aching. He was covered in a litany of small dents, but miraculously, no terrible injuries. He wasn't leaking. He wasn't damaged or broken, just a little dented and bruised.  
  
He tried his comm. "Jazz?"  
  
Nothing. Not even static.  
  
He ran a diagnostic. Everything pinged back within normal functions. Except, weirdly, his chronometer. It seemed to have stopped. And his GPS. It fed him a loading symbol over and over and over. It had no idea where he was.  
  
Not that he needed his GPS to tell him he was underground. Far, far underground. It smelled old and untouched here. Stale. Missing something.  
  
Oh. The stench of ordinance and fallout. He'd gotten so used to the odor above, he'd forgotten Cybertron didn't normally smell like that. Or he assumed it didn't. He hadn't been sparked here after all.  
  
Hot Rod climbed to his feet, hissing as his frame protested movement. He swayed a little, dizzy. Must've bumped his head. Ow.  
  
Something whispered in the dark.  
  
Hot Rod cycled his optics. He went still. He vented shallowly, letting his engine idle as quietly as possible.  
  
 _...here._  
  
That was definitely a whisper. It came from behind him.  
  
Hot Rod turned. There was a glow in the distance. Flickering. Blue-white. Like a small fire, but it wasn't getting nearer or further. It was just there.  
  
He looked up. No hole. No debris around him. Like he'd fallen through a hole that didn't exist. This was getting weirder and weirder.  
  
 _...come to me._  
  
There it was again. The light didn't waver, but it did seem to glow a bit brighter. As if beckoning. He really should stay in place, wait for Jazz, wait for rescue.  
  
Hot Rod had never been good at waiting.  
  
The very fact that it was a bad idea to follow a strange voice and a strange light in the underlevels of Cybertron after falling down a strange hole was the exact reason why Hot Rod decided to do it.  
  
Springer would have never approved, and well, that kind of sealed the deal.  
  
Hot Rod dusted himself off and moved toward the voice and the light, scanning the ground to make sure there were no holes in front of him. He didn't want to fall deeper.  
  
Time passed.  
  
He wasn't sure how much, because his chronometer was still frozen or non-functional. The path beneath him was solid, without debris to trip him, but it definitely sloped downward, taking him deeper. The dark closed all around him, save for his biolights, and the single dancing light in the distance.  
  
It didn't get closer or bigger, but Hot Rod felt compelled to follow it all the same. There was an odd sensation in his chest, like a pressure. It wasn't unpleasant or frightening, it was just there.  
  
 _come... come..._  
  
The whispers surrounded him, like a spell, and Hot Rod kept going. Distantly, he thought, _I'm being an idiot. I'm being led to my doom_ , but the thoughts were there and gone again, like wisps of smoke.  
  
Down, down, down, until he could feel the weight of Cybertron above him. The damp of the air clung to his armor in little droplets. It got warmer. Comfortably warm. Like the perfect temperature of his berth back in the barracks. Or lying in full sunlight on Earth, soaking up the solar energy while the wind teased his armor.  
  
And then there was a door. A massive door. It appeared in front of him as if by magic, and Hot Rod screeched to a halt. He’d almost ran into the damn thing.  
  
The light he'd been following was in the center of the door, a pale blue glow, and it was the same size it had always been, but now it was within reach. He could rise to the tips of his feet and touch it, if he wanted.  
  
The door itself was three times his height. It was wide enough to fit a shuttle with ease. It was cool to the touch. Metal, for sure, with glyphs and spidery thin engravings, and larger furrows running across it at sharp lines and angles.  
  
 _Come_.  
  
The voice was louder, more urgent. The pressure in his chest increased, and Hot Rod nibbled on his bottom lip.  
  
There was nothing but darkness behind him, a steady upward slope of a climb, and a hole which was no longer there.  
  
Forward was the only logical move to make. He pushed on the door. He searched for a handle, a console, a panel, anything to activate it.  
  
Nothing.  
  
The blue light pulsed.  
  
Hot Rod touched it, and a tingling warmth spilled into his fingertips and down his hand, his arm, to his chassis. The light flashed and grew bright, bright, bright until he had to shield his optics from the blinding glow. A low rumble rose up from beneath him, followed by a grinding, scraping noise.  
  
Hot Rod stumbled backward, oddly dizzy, and it took a moment for his system to reset, for the blinding glow to fade. The rumbling stopped.  
  
Silence reigned.  
  
Hot Rod rebooted his optics. Light spilled from the now open doorway, twinkling like a thousand stars, chasing away the dark. The door opened into a cavernous space, a low grade ramp leading up to a dais, where a spherical object hung from dozens and dozens of thick cables, suspended above the ground.  
  
 _Come, Hot Rod_ , the whispers said, and as they did, tiny licks of charge started to dance over the surface of the sphere.  
  
His feet moved of their own accord, through the doorway, up the incline, toward the glowing orb, the surface a dazzling twinkle of lights and shifting metal in a constant state of flux.  
  
 _We have a gift_ , it said. _For all_.  
  
"We?" Hot Rod repeated, and his voice sounded weird in this room, like it should have echoed, but it didn't.  
  
He kept climbing, until he stood at the very top, a few feet away from the sphere. There was a huge open space beneath it, and when Hot Rod crept close to the edge, it was like looking into the abyss. Despite the brightness of the room, it was pure dark down in that hole.  
  
We, the voices whispered, and as the stars danced over the surface of the sphere, to the same rhythm as the voice, Hot Rod made the connection.  
  
"Who or what are you?" Hot Rod asked. "Did you summon me here? Are you the reason for the earthquake? What's going on? How do you know my name?"  
  
 _All answers in time, brightspark_. The whispers surrounded him, echoing like his voice didn't, but they left a warmth in their wake. A comfort. Like the first time Kup put his hand on Hot Rod's shoulder with a friendly squeeze. Or the first time Ultra Magnus praised his actions in battle. Or the first time Springer called him 'brother'. Or the first time Jazz snuggled into his arms and recharged without trying to squirm away.  
  
 _For now, a gift. Come closer._  
  
Hot Rod shifted. "I'm kind of as close as I can get," he pointed out. "Unless you want me to jump into the tunnel of endless darkness, in which case, no thanks. Did that already."  
  
 _Click._  
  
Hot Rod jumped back as the ground rattled, his spark pounding in his chassis. He looked down as panels of metal appeared from seemingly nowhere, snapping into place and making a narrow walkway straight to the sphere.  
  
A dream. This had to be a dream. It was too weird to be anything but a dream.  
  
Hot Rod sucked in a vent and took a tentative step onto the platform. It held his weight. It gave him vertigo to look down into the endless abyss, so he kept his gaze focused on the sphere.  
  
"So... a gift," he said, with a bit of a laugh that hopefully didn't show how nervous he was. His knees wouldn't stop shaking. "What's it for?"  
  
 _It is for all_ , the whisper said. _It is a reminder. It is a promise. It is the future. The past._  
  
Wow. Not cryptic at all.  
  
"Sounds kind of important." Hot Rod inched across the platform, until he was within touching distance of the shifting, swirling sphere. "Sure you got the right mech to do this?"  
  
 _You are chosen._  
  
Hot Rod scrunched his nose. "Why?"  
  
Static charge spilled blue and pink and white across the surface of the sphere. The slow spinning continued, but a panel in front of Hot Rod went still, plating shifting and moving like it was about to transform before two of them slide aside, revealing a small cavity.  
  
 _Take this_ , said the whispers, _and know the importance of what you hold. It is your future. It is the future for all. Carry it well._  
  
Hot Rod hesitated. "Maybe someone else should do it. I don't think I'm the best person for something this important."  
  
 _Because you think you are not, you are_.  
  
"You know, I don't speak cryptic," Hot Rod muttered, but he squared his shoulders and peered into the open space. It was big enough for both of his hands to fit into, but that was it. "But hey, this is a dream, right?"  
  
 _Believe as you will._  
  
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  
  
Hot Rod sucked in a vent and grabbed whatever it was this entity wanted him to grab. It was an object, warm, made of metal and crystal? It was round, with two handles, and glowed with an inner light. It stirred something familiar in the back of his mind, and made his chestplates twitch.  
  
The panels slid shut, and more panels slid over it, concealing the cavity once more.  
  
"What is it?" Hot Rod asked.  
  
Something vibrated. Was it him? The air? The platform? Hot Rod wasn't sure. It started in his feet and carried upward, a low, pulsing rhythm that matched the flicker of the starry lights in the sphere. A rainbow of colors reflected in the crystal core of the item, flashing back at him.  
  
 _Guard it well, brightspark_ , the voices whispered, and a shiver ran up his spinal strut, crouching at the apex of it, an itch he couldn't scratch.  
  
Hot Rod stared at the crystal, tracing the dancing of the lights with his optics, and that sense of fullness in his chassis grew even stronger. Like his armor wasn't big enough to contain him. His chestplates jittered, flexing around his seams, and then they snapped open, baring his spark to all and sundry.  
  
He saw himself, reflected in the crystal, saw the glow of his spark, the oscillations of chaotic energy matching the same pulsing rhythm of the entity in front of him and the object in his hands. He saw himself, but not himself. He was somehow more.  
  
There was a space below his spark. There was a notch. It would fit this object. He'd never seen it before, but then, he'd never really looked into his chassis either. And this was a dream.  
  
It would only make sense in a dream.  
  
The object belonged there. Hot Rod was sure of it. So he pulled it closer to his chest, the rainbows dancing in the crystal. A feeling of warmth, of home, flooded his frame as it slid into place, as it notched into the port beneath his spark. It was bright, too bright to stand, almost too hot for comfort.  
  
 _Thank you, Hot Rod_ , the voice whispered, but not from outside this time. Instead, it was inside. Inside of him. From nowhere and everywhere. _And rise Rodimus Prime_.  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
Prime!?  
  
The object clicked into place. A surge of electricity leapt outward, crawling through every inch of Hot Rod's frame, his sensory net, his lines. His world flickered, stars to static, back again.  
  
And then it was dark, and he felt himself falling, falling forward, to the side, off the platform, into the endless abyss.  
  


~

  
“Find anything?”  
  
“Not yet!”  
  
“Are you sure he fell here? My readings don’t indicate the ground has even been disturbed.”  
  
“Keep looking, frag it! That’s my brother down there.”  
  
“There’s too much radiation. It’s futzing with the equipment.”  
  
“Futzing? That a scientific term?”  
  
“It is today.”  
  
“I completed a sweep. No sign of any other ground disturbances in the area.”  
  
“Try again.”  
  
The words washed through Jazz’s audials, in one and out the other. He heard them, accepted them, cataloged them, and immediately set them aside. They did not have the answers he needed. They did not inform him of Hot Rod’s location.  
  
There was a crew of at least a dozen mechs out here, all with various skillsets, and none of them had found Hot Rod.  
  
The fury radiating from Springer was volcanic and tangible. Jazz ignored him. He wasn’t afraid of Springer. He tolerated the mech for Hot Rod’s sake.  
  
Springer had already yelled and thrown his accusations. Now, they worked at opposite ends of the search area, and Jazz made sure to keep it that way.  
  
If he hadn't seen it for himself, Jazz wouldn't believe his story either.  
  
But he knows what he saw. He knows Hot Rod had been here and vanished. He knows Hot Rod was here somewhere.  
  
He would find him.  
  
A low grade vibration rose up from the ground. Jazz stilled and looked down. His sensors prickled. The air tasted of charge, subtle but sharp. The shouting dulled. He glanced around, unable to detect the source, but it crawled over his armor like a static wave.  
  
"Do you feel that?" Drift asked.  
  
Jazz nodded absently, touching his chestplate and pulling his hand away, charge snapping between the space before it vanished.  
  
"What is it?" Drift asked.  
  
The ground rumbled again, stronger this time, not enough to put Jazz off balance, but too strong to pretend it was a figment of his imagination. Potential thickened in the air, like Earth before a lightning strike. The sky was clear, without a sign of acid rain clouds for miles in any direction.  
  
Charge crackled up from the ground, blue-white jagged streaks of it, hitting Jazz's feet and leaving a tingling sensation behind.  
  
"I am detecting some highly unusual energy spikes," Perceptor said, his tone halfway between excited and concerned.  
  
"But no underground activity," Scavenger said as he transformed back to root mode and crouched, putting his palm to the ground. "These tremors are surface level."  
  
"This is weird," Drift said.  
  
"As weird as Hot Rod vanishing down a hole that immediately sealed itself," Jazz agreed, and he didn't want to say he felt a stirring of hope, but he certainly felt something. Or maybe that was the static crawling fiercer over his armor, crackling and sputtering.  
  
No one else seemed to be gathering energy like he did. Why?  
  
Jazz turned toward the Gorge, scanning the area. The search party stood around like a group of confused prey, but Jazz knew there was something...  
  
Something.  
  
"Jazz?"  
  
A sharp snap of charge ripped through his frame. Jazz jerked, gasping a vent, as electricity danced over his armor and leapt from his chassis, forming a ball of fire in front of him. It was small, no bigger than the palm of his hand, but it danced and spun in the air.  
  
"What the frag?" Drift breathed, his optics wide, one hand going to his sword. "What is that?"  
  
"I don't know," Jazz said, and honestly, he didn't. He had no clue what any of this was, except that it felt important. It had something to do with Hot Rod.  
  
The ball of energy suddenly took off, heading toward the Gorge. Jazz knew he had to follow it. The thing was leading him somewhere. To someone. To Hot Rod.  
  
He dropped into alt-mode and tore off after the little spark, the roar of Drift's engine immediately following after. Jazz couldn't explain it. If anyone asked, he'd have to lie, to make something else. There was a pressure around his spark, a ball of worry and guilt and anger, and it pulled him after that spark.  
  
Toward the Gorge.  
  
"What's going on, Jazz?" Springer snarled across the comm.  
  
Jazz ignored him.  
  
St. Elmo's Fire. Wasn't that what the humans called things like this small spark? Fairy lights. Will o’ Wisps. Destined to lead humans to their doom. Maybe that's what was going on here. Maybe Jazz was losing his processor.  
  
The little spark dove into the Gorge.  
  
Jazz hit the brakes, kicking up dust and dirt. He jogged to the edge, peered over, and his spark surged. There, at least a hundred feet below, on a jagged outcropping, was Hot Rod. The ball of charge danced over Hot Rod's frame before it fizzled to nothing.  
  
Hot Rod wasn't moving.  
  
Jazz didn't think twice. He'd jumped further during the war. He leapt into the Gorge, aiming for Hot Rod's ledge, his grappling hook at the ready in case he missed.  
  
 _He's going to need you._  
  
Jazz hit the ledge hard, knees protesting, but he tucked into a roll at the last second, mitigating the worst of the damage. Primus, he was getting soft in this time of peace. He needed to fix that. His gyros reset.  
  
Hot Rod still hadn't moved.  
  
Jazz ran toward him, skidding onto his knees beside the prone frame. Hot Rod lay curled on his side, little crackles of energy dancing over his armor. He was venting, Jazz could hear that much, and his engine idled, but he wasn't conscious. His optics were shuttered.  
  
"Roddy?"  
  
Jazz cupped his head, felt the thrum of life through his palms. Nips of static attacked his sensory net. There was a heaviness in the air, especially around Hot Rod, and while his field was familiar to Jazz, there was something else there. Something distantly familiar, but Jazz couldn't quite put a finger on it...  
  
 _Every Prime needs a Protector._  
  
Jazz stilled.  
  
Yes. Yes, he knew the taste of this in Hot Rod's field. He'd spent too many centuries alongside Optimus not to know what this was.  
  
He looked at Hot Rod's chestplate, placed a palm over it. Hot Rod's spark thrummed strong and rhythmic, but charge crawled out from under his seam, warm and tingling where it hit Jazz's haptic net. That sense of energy was stronger, painfully familiar, and the weight of it crashed over Jazz with realization.  
  
"Oh, Roddy, what have you gotten yourself into?" Jazz murmured.  
  
Hot Rod stirred, a low moan leaving his lips. His optics flickered, dim but online. He peered up, forehead crinkling. "Jazz?"  
  
"You took a tumble, hot stuff," Jazz said, forcing a smile to his lips, a smile he knew didn't reach his visor. "Best not do that again."  
  
Hot Rod smiled at him, and it made Jazz's spark do little flips of joy. "I brought a present," he murmured, and one shaky hand tapped his chassis under Jazz's palm. "For everyone."  
  
"I'm sure ya did," Jazz said, as the _thwip-thwip-thwip-thud_ heralded Springer's arrival, along with a roar of angered energy field.  
  
"Hot Rod!"  
  
Jazz was shouldered aside, and while he could have easily turned Springer's strength against him, tossing the mech on his aft, now wasn't the time.  
  
"He needs a medic," Jazz said.  
  
"He needs to get away from you," Springer snapped, and he scooped Hot Rod into his arms as if Hot Rod weighed nothing, twisting to put himself between them.  
  
"This is not my fault," Jazz hissed, and his hands pulled into fists, his threat-assessment peppering him with a half-dozen helpful ways to take Springer down, though none of them would keep Hot Rod from clattering to the ground.  
  
Springer glared at him. "Maybe it isn't. But he's not your responsibility either. I'll take it from here."  
  
"I can help," Jazz insisted.  
  
"Don't need it." Springer's hands tightened where they gripped Hot Rod, and Hot Rod himself must've lost his tenuous grip on consciousness because he passed out again. "I'll take care of him. I'm his brother, after all. "  
  
Jazz's engine snarled. "And I'm--"  
  
"You're what?" Springer demanded, his rotors giving a threatening spin. He took a step back. "Finish the sentence, Jazz."  
  
Jazz clamped his mouth shut. His face heated.  
  
"Nothing, that's what you are," Springer said, and his optics narrowed to slits. "Just the trouble that got him in this mess in the first place."  
  
He folded into heli-mode, tucking Hot Rod into his cabin with expertise, suggesting he'd probably done it dozens of times before. Springer was a big mech, but even so, he subbed a lot of mass on a daily basis. He was more than large enough to carry Hot Rod up and out of the chasm.  
  
Jazz wouldn't have been able to do it anyway.  
  
He watched Springer go, emotion boiling in his chassis, and then he fired his grappling hook at the top, where it caught on the edge and stuck. He started to climb, his energon roiling, his denta gritted, Springer's words caught at the back of his mind.  
  
He wouldn't be so angry if it wasn't the damn truth. He and Hot Rod had made no promises to each other, no agreements on anything but this constant, casual friendship they had. Jazz needed it to be that way; Hot Rod didn't seem to mind.  
  
But Jazz wasn't an idiot.  
  
He knew what it meant, when his spark sank into his tanks, and the sheer panic he'd felt when Hot Rod disappeared. He was no stranger to this emotion, as hard as he'd tried to push it away, ignore it. He'd never intended to look for it, not again. Not after Optimus.  
  
Instead, it chased him, with cocky smiles, and a ridiculous paint job, and a hardheaded attitude, and the cutest spoiler this side of Cybertron.  
  
Jazz climbed and by the time he got to the edge, a hand offered itself down to him, and Jazz took it, accepting the help to pull him up and over. It was Drift, because Springer was long gone, Roddy in hand, and the rest of the search party was piling into the shuttle.  
  
"How'd you find him?" Drift asked.  
  
"Good instincts, I guess." Jazz brushed himself off, trying to swallow his anger.  
  
"Instincts. Yeah." Drift looked him over, up and down. "Come on. The shuttle's waiting. If we hurry, we can catch up to them at the medbay."  
  
Jazz shook his head. "Nah, mech. Think I'll drive back. Could use the space. Roddy's got all the company he needs right now."  
  
Drift grabbed his arm, and Jazz had to still himself on the instinct to throw Drift over his shoulder. "He'd want you there."  
  
Jazz snorted and slipped his arm free without beating Drift's head in. "Don't see why?" He tossed Drift a flirty smile. "He's in no shape for our usual play. He's got his brother. He's fine."  
  
Drift cocked an orbital ridge, folding his arms. "For one, it's not up to Springer who Roddy does and doesn't want to see, and for two..." He leaned closer, cocking his head. "If you think anyone's gonna believe that load of pitslag you just fed me, I've got a planet I can sell you in Exelon space."  
  
"I don't want a planet," Jazz retorted, rolling his optics.  
  
"Nope. You just want Hot Rod." Drift smirked and slipped into alt-mode, revving his engine as he sped past Jazz, spraying grit and dust at him. " _Hurry up. There's room for you on the shuttle_."  
  
Jazz glared at Drift's aft. He didn't like being challenged. He didn't like cocky former Decepticons. He especially didn't like that Drift was right.  
  
He transformed and sped to the shuttle.  
  
If anything, he refused to let Springer win.  
  


***


	3. Chapter 3

The sky was a bright, vivid blue, with puffy streams of cotton-candy clouds drifting lazily across the horizon. Wind buffeted his armor, warm, but not as warm as the sun beaming down on him. There was a scent in the air -- organic, like greenery -- and Hot Rod realized where he was.  
  
There had been a field of wildflowers a mile or so beyond the Ark’s crashsite. While most of the landscape had been devastated by the Decepticon’s attack, this one had bounced back and flourished. Hot Rod had often taken his free time to speed out to the field, lay back among the tall flowers, and doze. He watched the clouds drift by.  
  
Springer never looked for him there. Springer didn’t like Earth. Hot Rod tended to take a lot of shifts on Earth because it was a time he could be guaranteed to be without Springer looking worriedly over his shoulder.  
  
He hadn’t been back much lately.  
  
Earth didn’t need a team.  
  
And well, Jazz didn’t go to Earth much. So Hot Rod didn’t either.  
  
He hadn’t been to Earth in years, which meant this had to be a dream. It was a good dream.  
  
“I can see why you like this place. It is nothing you will ever find on Cybertron.”  
  
Hot Rod cycled his optics. He looked to his left, and where previously he’d been alone, another mech sat beside him, head tilted back, gaze focused on the sky. Hot Rod had never seen this mech before.  
  
He was as big as Optimus, with broad shoulders, and he was a sort of gold, copper, bronze paint all over. He was sharp angles and harsh lines, boxier than Hot Rod was used to, but weirdest of all, he wasn’t armed. Even the Neutrals went around armed.  
  
“No, Cybertron doesn’t really have, um, growing things,” Hot Rod said.  
  
“It used to. Of a sort.” The corner of the mech’s mouth tilted in a fond smile, if not a bit sad. “It may again. Thanks to you.”  
  
Hot Rod blinked. “Who are you?”  
  
Finally, the mech looked at him, and his optics were a pale, pale amber. Reddish amber. “If you don’t already know, you will in time.” He gestured to Hot Rod’s chassis. “I gave you that gift. I suspect you’ll protect it well.”  
  
Gift?  
  
Hot Rod touched his chest, felt the stirring of something beneath his spark. Oh. The other dream he had. The one about the voice under Cybertron and the trinket it gave him.  
  
“Am I dead?” he asked.  
  
The mech chuckled, and there was something warm and comforting about the sound of it. “No, Rodimus. You aren’t dead. You’re resting at the moment. It’s no small act to take the Matrix for the first time.”  
  
“My name is Hot Rod,” he said, and then he cycled his optics as he replayed the mech’s words. “And wait. Matrix?”  
  
The mech tapped his chassis, and the something beneath Hot Rod’s spark gave out a surge of tingling warmth that flooded his frame, and maybe coiled a bit inappropriately in his groin.  
  
“Megatron destroyed that,” Hot Rod said dumbly.  
  
“Megatron destroyed the physical vessel, but not the knowledge or life it contained. That returned to me.” The mech withdrew his finger and cocked his head at Rodimus. “And I held onto it, until such time as I felt it could be returned.”  
  
“To Optimus?”  
  
The mech shook his head. “Optimus has been an exemplary Prime. He deserves his rest, don’t you think?”  
  
Hot Rod agreed with that. Optimus had been Prime for a long, long time. He’d suffered a lot, too. Mostly at Megatron’s hands, but still. Hot Rod paid attention. He saw things other mechs didn’t think he saw.  
  
Optimus was tired. He led them because he had to, but he was definitely tired.  
  
“Who should I give it to then?” Hot Rod asked.  
  
The mech smiled at him, and something about the smile made little flipflops take residence in Hot Rod’s tanks. “I think the right mech has it, Rodimus. Don’t you?”  
  
“I’m not Rodimus,” Hot Rod said.  
  
A low chuckle spilled from the mech’s lips, sending shivers down Hot Rod’s backstrut. “You will be,” he said.  
  
And Hot Rod woke up.  
  
His optics unshuttered, brightening in an instant. His frame jerked on the berth. He stared up at a bright-white ceiling, a discordant song of beeps and chirps and droning around him. He cycled his optics, the acrid scent of sterilizer and weld-fire and paint-filler, burning at his nose.  
  
Medbay.  
  
He was in a medbay.  
  
And he wasn’t alone.  
  
Hot Rod turned his head, followed the warmth in his right hand to the mech holding it, their fingers tangled together. Jazz was conked out in the chair at an awkward angle, his visor dim with recharge, his lips parted. He was covered in a thin layer of dust, like he’d been racing on the Badlands again.  
  
Wait.  
  
They _had_ been racing in the Badlands.  
  
Memory trickled in. He recalled, vividly, racing with Jazz. The ground rumbling, opening up, swallowing him. Then dreams, weird ones, back to back. Hot Rod touched his chest with his free hand, only to startle.  
  
He didn’t feel quite right. There was a heaviness in his chassis, like something was nestling into his chest, beneath his spark.  
  
What the frag was going on?  
  
“Roddy?”  
  
He looked at Jazz again, and suddenly, Jazz was online and alert, like he hadn’t been deep in recharge a few seconds before. He lurched to his feet, hovering at Hot Rod’s bedside, their fingers still tangled.  
  
“What happened?” Hot Rod asked, his vocals croaking.  
  
“Still not sure about that,” Jazz said, and there was a wariness to his tone, an anxiety in the way his armor flickered, and his visor light kept shifting toward the door. He held his field away from Hot Rod, like he didn’t want Hot Rod to sense it. “You disappeared, and then we found you, and now…”  
  
“Now what?”  
  
Jazz gestured to all of Hot Rod’s frame. “Congratulations, I think.”  
  
Hot Rod frowned and sat up with Jazz’s help, Jazz who seemed much smaller than usual. Or no. Hot Rod was bigger. Longer. His shoulders were broader. His armor heavier, still painted with familiar flames, but the colors seemed richer and deeper.  
  
“Rodimus,” Hot Rod murmured. “It called me Rodimus, and the mech in my dream called me Rodimus.” He dragged his fingers over his seam. “Am I really carrying the Matrix?”  
  
“Ratchet says you are. Feels like you are.” Jazz shrugged, like he was trying to be casual, but Hot Rod had been there, when he caught Jazz staring after Optimus longingly, and he knew what Jazz looked like when he was hiding his emotions. “Guess you are.”  
  
He didn’t want to be.  
  
“What does it mean?” Hot Rod asked.  
  
Jazz shook his head. “That’s a question for Optimus and Ultra Magnus. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”  
  
Hot Rod didn’t know the answer to that question. “I’m not in pain. I’m confused, but I’m not hurting or anything. I guess that means I’m okay.” He looked at their joined hands. “Thanks for staying. I’m surprised Springer let you.”  
  
Jazz briefly offered a look at irritation before he wiped it away. “He probably wouldn’t have, if Ratchet hadn’t put his foot down.” He grinned, for a moment looking like his old self. “It’s always good to have Ratchet on your side.”  
  
Hot Rod chuckled. “He’s a force to be reckoned with.”  
  
“So are you,” Jazz said, and his thumb swept over the back of Hot Rod’s hand, a motion Hot Rod would dare call tender, save this was Jazz, and Hot Rod knew better. “Had me worried there, hot stuff. Try not to fall into any more holes in the future, yeah?”  
  
“I make no promises,” Hot Rod said, as the door slid open with an announcing beep.  
  
Optimus and Ratchet both stepped inside, and Hot Rod didn’t miss the part where Jazz slipped his hand free and backed away, Hot Rod immediately missing the warmth of it.  
  
“You’re conscious,” Ratchet gruffly said as he hustled his way to the other side of the berth, opposite Jazz, and glared at the instruments until they spat Hot Rod’s data at him. “Maybe now you can finally tell us what happened.”  
  
Hot Rod sighed. “I’m still not sure I know.” He eyed Optimus, who looked tired and excited and worried all at once. “You’re probably the only one who could tell me, sir.”  
  
“Sir.” Ratchet snorted and the wash of a scan tingled over Hot Rod’s frame. “Well, you’re in pretty good shape, kid. Better even.”  
  
Hot Rod looked down at himself again, trying not to frown and failing. “Yeah. I noticed.”  
  
“Ratchet. Jazz. Could you give us a moment?” Optimus asked, his tone turned grave, but something his field warm with comfort and understanding. “I believe this is a conversation Hot Rod and I need to have alone.”  
  
“Sure thing, OP.” Jazz patted Optimus on the arm and drifted toward the door, though he flashed Hot Rod a warm smile before he left.  
  
Ratchet produced a cube of energon and set it on the table beside Hot Rod’s berth. “Make sure he drinks this. I’ll be back in a bit.”  
  
“Of course, Ratchet.”  
  
The medic left, locking the door behind him, and Optimus carefully lowered himself into the chair Jazz had abandoned. Hot Rod fiddled with the controls of the berth, raising it so that he no longer felt like an invalid or a sparkling surrounded by his elders. Especially when Optimus gave him a long, searching look.  
  
“You can have it back,” Hot Rod blurted, panicking, or not-panicking. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, save the heaviness on his shoulder, like a burden he didn’t want to carry. “I mean, I don’t know how to do it, but it can’t be that hard.”  
  
Optimus gave him a gentle smile. “I think it has found the right bearer. If it was meant for me, it would have come to me.”  
  
Hot Rod shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to carry it for someone more worthy. I mean, what do I know about being a Prime? I don’t want to be a Prime.”  
  
“We aren’t often ready for the burdens that fall upon us.” Optimus’ smile slipped a little. He glanced at the door, as if ensuring they were alone, before he continued, “I know I wasn’t. You have the advantage here. You are not inheriting this burden from a mech long dead. I am here, and I can help you.”  
  
Hot Rod sank into the berth. “I can’t be a Prime, Optimus.” He touched his chest, where what seemed to be the Matrix pulsed warmth at him. It wriggled in its housing, like it sensed Optimus and was trying to greet him. “I don’t… I can’t do what you do.”  
  
“Only because you think you can’t.” Optimus patted his arm, and a crackle of static snapped from Hot Rod’s armor to Optimus’ fingertips. It sent a bloom of heat through Hot Rod’s chassis, a dancing of the Matrix in its cradle.  
  
Hot Rod’s optics widened. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Optimus lifted his hand curiously, examining his fingers, where the blue static continued to dance from finger to finger in a rhythm that was almost cheerful. “I’ve never forgotten what it felt to carry one,” he said, and there’s an ache in his voice, a longing. “It’s a wonderful and terrible burden.” He sighed and closed his hand into a fist, the spark vanishing into nothing. “What did He call you?”  
  
Hot Rod nibbled on his bottom lip. “It was real then? That thing I saw in Cybertron’s core and the mech who talked to me in a dream? The gold-bronze mech?”  
  
“Primus,” Optimus nodded. “He was probably Primus, and the ‘thing’ in the core.” He narrowed his eyes, visibly thinking, his hands resting on his thighs as though he was afraid to touch Hot Rod again. “Perhaps it was the Primal Spark.”  
  
Yeah. That made sense.  
  
Hot Rod rubbed at his chassis and cycled a ventilation. “Rodimus,” he offered. “Rodimus Prime. That’s what they called me.”  
  
“It suits you.” Optimus smiled at him, but there was still something in his optics, something like sympathy. “You were unconscious for two days, Rodimus, and in that time, word of your return with the Matrix has spread.”  
  
Hot Rod groaned and knocked his head back against the berth, shuttering his optics. “Couldn’t anyone keep their mouth shut until I was at least awake enough to defend myself?” He rubbed his face, hiding behind his palms. “Why does everything have to change?”  
  
“Change is a way of life. If it is inevitable.” Optimus paused, as if hesitating, and Hot Rod read the reluctance in his field, much easier than he would have been capable before. “There is a small, but growing segment of the population who believes the planet should be led by a Prime carrying the Matrix. There are even Decepticons and Neutrals who agree.”  
  
Hot Rod groaned louder. “That’s so stupid. What we’ve been doing for the past decade works. Why should we change now?”  
  
“Tradition holds powerful sway.”  
  
“Tradition is stupid.” Hot Rod dropped his hands and gave Optimus a sidelong look. “What do you think?”  
  
“I think the will of the people is a powerful thing,” Optimus conceded diplomatically. “I agree that our current political situation is stable and should remain. But I also can’t ignore how important the office of the Prime is, and whether or not a Prime leads Cybertron, the existence of the Matrix can’t be denied.”  
  
Hot Rod’s head hurt. He rubbed his temples. “I don’t want this,” he whispered.  
  
“I know. But I will do my very best to make it as easy for you as I can. Primus wouldn’t have chosen you if He didn’t think you were what Cybertron needs right now.”  
  
It was not a consolation.  
  
Hot Rod drew in a long, heavy vent. “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t mean it. The Matrix was important. Cybertron needed the Matrix, he was sure of that much. He didn’t want to be the one to carry it.  
  
But he didn’t want to be the one who turned it down, and took away Primus’ gift to all Cybertronians either.  
  
“Tell me what I need to do.”  
  


~

  
  
Eventually, Ratchet chased out Optimus, and Hot Rod was left alone. Jazz waited for his opportunity, waited for them to walk away deep in conversation and knowing there was soon to be a meeting among the Autobot leadership, about what to do with this political SNAFU.  
  
Politics weren’t Jazz’s acumen. No one would miss him at the meeting.  
  
Hot Rod needed him more. For as long as he’d have Jazz anyway, which probably wasn’t for much longer. He was a Prime now. He was important. He didn’t need a friend with benefits. He needed someone he could count on.  
  
As soon as the coast was clear and Ratchet was far from scanning range, Jazz slipped into Hot Rod’s room without being noticed by the cameras. It was pathetically easy. Nothing was a challenge anymore. He almost missed the war.  
  
Hot Rod’s room was dim, as if he’d been ordered to recharge and Ratchet wanted to make sure that order was followed by manually dimming the lights. Hot Rod was connected to fewer machines, but there was one which registered a steady beep.  
  
Jazz crept to the edge to the berth, and moved to sit in the chair again, when Hot Rod stirred, pulling in a soft ventilation.  
  
“Jazz?”  
  
“Hey, hot stuff.” Jazz managed a smile and sat on the edge of the berth instead. “You and OP have a good talk?”  
  
Hot Rod inched over on the berth, making space beside him. An invitation Jazz wasn’t sure he should accept. “I’m a Prime now apparently,” he said, and the complete lack of excitement in his voice made Jazz’s spark squeeze. “Whether I like it or not.”  
  
Frag it.  
  
Jazz climbed onto the berth, into the space Hot Rod made for him. “He give you that speech about fate and destiny?”  
  
Hot Rod turned over with effort, on his belly as he preferred to recharge, though now half on Jazz’s chassis. “He promised to help. Teach me and all that.” He buried his face against Jazz’s shoulder, voice vibrating against Jazz’s armor. “I’m Rodimus Prime now, whatever the frag that means.”  
  
Jazz slung an arm around him, petting his back in long, even strokes. “Ya want me to call ya that?”  
  
“I don’t want anyone to call me that.”  
  
Hot Rod’s field reached out for his, and Jazz reached back, let their energies tangle, though something in him ached. Hot Rod felt like Hot Rod, but there was something else wrapped up in him now, something ancient and ageless and painfully familiar.  
  
“I’ll call ya Hot Rod then,” Jazz said. “I’ll call ya whatever ya want. This is still your choice, Roddy. Whatever anyone else says, this is still your choice.”  
  
Hot Rod vented out, long and slow and sad. “I don’t know if I really have a choice,” he mumbled. “I have responsibility now. I don’t belong to myself anymore.”  
  
How many times had he heard Optimus lament the very same thing, those long and dark nights during the war, when Optimus had allowed himself to be maudlin around his closest companions. The few moments of peace, taken post-battle, or early morning or in long periods of quiet from the Decepticons, when Optimus could rest and not lead.  
  
It was a burden Jazz couldn’t take from him, couldn’t help him with, and he felt as useless then as he did now.  
  
He didn’t know what to say.  
  
“I like Roddy,” Hot Rod mumbled into the quiet. “You can call me that.”  
  
“Roddy it is.” Jazz nuzzled Hot Rod, managed to tilt his face up enough to steal a sleepy kiss from the new Prime. “Sleep, Roddy. I’ll keep an optic out for ya.”  
  
Hot Rod made a soft, humming noise, and curled further into Jazz, relaxing little by little, until recharge took him, one hand hooked on Jazz as though determined to keep him in the berth.  
  
Jazz vented, long and low. He stared at the ceiling. He wouldn’t recharge. He couldn’t. His spark hammered, and his thoughts bounced in a thousand directions.  
  
Hot Rod never should have had to bear this. What kind of god lurked in their core, putting this weight on Hot Rod’s shoulders? Jazz believed he could do it. He knew Hot Rod was capable. Kid had a bright spark, and that was something Cybertron sorely needed. But it wasn’t fair.  
  
Hot Rod hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t wanted it.  
  
Then again, neither had Orion Pax.  
  
Jazz sighed and tucked Hot Rod more firmly against him. Primus was cruel, but maybe Jazz was even crueler.  
  


~

  
  
Optimus stood at the window while the discussion rose and fell behind him, heated at times, cold at others, butting up against dead ends and stubbornness, making no progress. There were no easy solutions to be had. There were only attempts to be made, and results to be analyzed.  
  
His chest ached. Far, far less than it had before he’d touched Hot Rod -- Rodimus’ -- shoulder. Now it was an ache of guilt. Of disappointment. Of anger. Guilt that Rodimus had this burden. Disappointment the Matrix had not returned to him. Anger over his disappointment.  
  
He was as glad to be free of the Matrix as he longed to have it back. He felt incomplete without it. He felt as though he was no longer worthy of the name Optimus, and part of him wished like burning he could go back to Orion Pax.  
  
Optimus was tired.  
  
“At the very least, we should announce the return of the Matrix and the newly chosen Prime. The people of Cybertron deserve to know,” Ultra Magnus said, a bit of exasperation in his voice, as he’d stated this opinion more than a few times. He was big on open lines of communication.  
  
Secrets, Magnus had told him, had been a great portion of Cybertron’s downfall which led to war. How much had the Senate hidden from them? How hard had they worked to hide their mistakes and the lives they’d taken?  
  
“Well, we can’t hide it, so we might as well,” Ratchet said with a wave of his hand. “But I think before we announce it, we should have a plan or we’ll get inundated with all kinds of opinions.”  
  
Optimus turned to face them and retook his seat. “Rodimus is not ready to assume any mantle of Prime-hood. I will not allow anyone to push him into the position until he’s ready, by his estimation and my own.”  
  
“There are mechs intensely loyal to the office of the Prime and the will of Primus,” Ultra Magnus said, not to be contradictory, but to remind. “They may push to install Rodimus as the Autobot leader, and even push to make a Prime leader of a unified Cybertron.”  
  
Springer snorted and leaned back in his chair, sitting with a lackadaisical slouch that would have made Ironhide proud. “They can push all they want. Doesn’t mean we gotta listen. We’ve had ten years of peace the way it is. People wanna go back to war? Because that’s a sure way to do it.”  
  
“Optimus beloved,” Soundwave said, and Optimus’ spark gave a dance of warmth and affection for his partner. “Rodimus aside, Optimus beloved.”  
  
“He’s got a point.” Ratchet rapped his fingers on the table, optics narrowed, lips forming a line of thought. “Optimus, you’ve led us through a lot of things. You’ve earned our respect, our trust, our loyalty. Primus handing out another Matrix isn’t going to change that.”  
  
Optimus leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “The return of the Matrix heralds other good news. It means the Primal Spark lives, and with it, the core of Cybertron. We must be doing something right.”  
  
“One can hope.” Ultra Magnus dragged in a deep, heavy vent. “What do you want to tell the people?”  
  
“That I intend to train Rodimus. We will acknowledge his new name and title, and that he is carrying the Matrix, but we are holding fast to the democratic process which elected me,” Optimus said, though his spark twinged. He swallowed his disappointment. “If, when it comes time Rodimus is elected to take my place, I will step aside.”  
  
Optimus didn’t dare voice the truth. How much he hoped the votes would sway in Rodimus’ favor, or that he’d be allowed to step down with dignity, without feeling as though he was failing those who depended on him.  
  
Optimus was so very tired.  
  
“Statement acceptable,” Soundwave said.  
  
Ultra Magnus made a notation on his datapad. “There will be yelling, but there is always yelling. I agree. This is the best course of action.”  
  
"Yeah, I agree, too," Springer said, and he pointedly looked around the table. "Is there anyone who doesn't? Jazz? What about you?" He looked around again. "Oh. I forgot. He didn't come to this mandatory meeting."  
  
Ratchet sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have been dealing with this pitslag for the past two days, Springer, I don't want to hear it now."  
  
"Jazz agreed; Contact maintained," Soundwave said, and only Optimus would be able to read the smugness in Soundwave's tone, and the cool look he gave Springer.  
  
Interestingly, when it came down to the cold war between Springer and Jazz, Soundwave had come down on the side of the latter. Where once there had been a tense bitterness, Jazz and Soundwave had formed something of a cabal. It was terrifying.  
  
"That's convenient," Springer said.  
  
"It is, actually," Ratchet growled, and stood, his expression one of clear annoyance. "Because it means we can all agree and adjourn this meeting, and I can go back to work."  
  
"I will begin drafting the announcement immediately," Ultra Magnus said.  
  
Optimus nodded. "Thank you, Ultra Magnus. And yes, Ratchet is right. If there is nothing further to discuss, let's close this impromptu meeting. I'm sure we all have matters that need our attention."  
  
There were few grumbles, a couple choice glances exchanged between Springer and Soundwave, but Optimus' cabinet dispersed one by one, leaving only Optimus and Soundwave behind. Optimus cycled a ventilation and let his shoulders relax, allowing the tension of leadership to fall from him like a mantle.  
  
Soundwave moved closer to him, until their thighs touched, and a cube of energon slid into Optimus' field of view. "Drink."  
  
Optimus managed a half-smile. "Do you ever tire of caring for me, Soundwave?" he asked as he accepted the cube, though he had been feeling much energized since encountering Rodimus and the Matrix he carried.  
  
"Never." Soundwave slipped his hand into Optimus' unoccupied one, tangling their fingers together. He lifted it toward his mouth, mask sliding aside so that he could brush his lips over Optimus' knuckles. "You are troubled."  
  
Ah. Such was life with a telepath. There was very little which stayed hidden for long.  
  
"Yes. And worried for Rodimus," Optimus admitted. "He is lucky to inherit the mantle at a time of peace, and inherit it from a Prime who has not preceded him by death, but still. It is no easy task to bear the Matrix, and he's so young..."  
  
Much, much younger than Optimus had been when he'd been given the Matrix. It had been as unexpected for him as it was for Hot Rod, and Optimus privately wondered why Primus insisted on blindsiding his Chosen with this responsibility.  
  
Soundwave kissed his knuckles again. "Secretly, you are excited."  
  
Optimus ducked his head, his finials twitching. "I'm glad you're the only one who can read that from me. I feel guilty enough already."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I know how hard it is to be a Prime, and as much as I want to retire, I also don't want to pass that on to someone who isn't eager to take it." Optimus leaned in to Soundwave, resting his head on Soundwave's shoulder, counting the mech's ventilations, always a soothing cadence. "They want me to be their Prime forever, and I always thought I would be, until the day my spark passed on. Now that another option has presented itself, I hesitate to take it."  
  
"For Hot Rod's sake."  
  
Optimus hummed an agreement.  
  
Soundwave's thumb swept over his palm, and Optimus focused on the soothing motion of it. "That is why you are loved."  
  
"Thank you." Optimus' spark throbbed with warmth. He would never have imagined to have this in his future. "I promised you I would be yours alone one day. It seems Primus heard my prayers."  
  
Soundwave's field brushed over his, sizzling with delight. "I will support whatever you decide."  
  
Optimus cocked his head. "But you'd be happy if I retired?"  
  
A chuckle rattled in Soundwave's chassis. "Not unhappy," he agreed, and his thumb rubbed circles on Optimus' palm. "But happiest when Optimus happy, too."  
  
"Thank you." Optimus leaned in, stole a kiss, because he could and they were alone, and it was still a marvel he could do such a thing.  
  
Though, at the moment, nothing more because Laserbeak and Buzzsaw slumbered within Soundwave, and Optimus was not keen on witnesses, whether or not those witnesses cared.  
  
“I am happy when I’m with you,” Optimus said against Soundwave’s lips, because it was true, and Soundwave deserved to hear it.  
  
Soundwave rumbled, pulling Optimus into his arms, and though it would be nothing more than chaste kisses, it was enough to soothe away the worries of the day.  
  
For now.  
  


~

  
  
Hot Rod didn't know this place.  
  
He turned in a slow circle. He'd never been here before, he was sure of it, though something about it tugged at familiarity. Like maybe he'd seen a picture of it. Or someone had described it to him once.  
  
Towering spires of metal rose up around him, evenly spaced, their pointed tips curving in toward the center as if meant to hold something. The metal was a deep, deep gray, like duryllium, but it had seen wear and tear. Pockmarks. Acid scars. Slashes. It had seen war.  
  
In the center of them, along the ground, was an impression, a dais that fell inward rather than rising upward, wide circular platforms that led down to a central opening, big enough to fit a shuttle. There were glyphs inscribed in each platform, glyphs Hot Rod couldn't read, and there were seams along each platform, like it was designed to rotate.  
  
Hot Rod walked around the structure, his footsteps echoing in the still and quiet with little tap-tap-taps. There was no sun, the sky bright with an unknown light. There was no wind either. It just was.  
  
And then he wasn't alone. There was a mech standing next to him, familiar in gold and bronze and copper, broad finials, broad shoulders, hands behind his back, a distant look in his amber-red optics.  
  
"Primus," Hot Rod said. Greeted. Acknowledged.  
  
The mech inclined his head. "Is that who you think I am?"  
  
"It's who Optimus said you are."  
  
'Primus' chuckled and gave Hot Rod a smile which seemed to warm him all the way to the tips of his feet, and rise up his backstrut. "Then that is who I am."  
  
Hot Rod squinted. "Is this what I get from now on?" He gestured between himself and Primus. "Am I going to dream every night?"  
  
"Only when it's of great importance. It seems frequent now because the Matrix is new to you, but it won't be so in the future."  
  
Hot Rod didn't know if that was a relief or not. "All right. So what's important right now?" He looked around pointedly. "And where are we?"  
  
"I find your irreverence charming." Primus hummed and started to descend the step-like platforms, the glyphs lighting up in his wake.  
  
Hot Rod guessed he was supposed to follow, so he did, and he checked to see what the glyphs did beneath him. Where Primus inspired a blue-white glow, Hot Rod's was a pink-blue glow, more purple than anything. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?  
  
"This was the Well of Allsparks," Primus explained as he gestured with one hand before clasping them again. "And we stand on Vector Sigma."  
  
"I thought Vector Sigma was a giant computer?"  
  
"Who says this isn't one?"  
  
Okay. Fair enough.  
  
"Are you going to reignite them?" Hot Rod asked.  
  
"No."  
  
Hot Rod winced. "Um. Am I going to do it?"  
  
Primus chuckled again, that same rolling, tingling sound. "No. They are going to remain dark and dormant. Having a central location for reproduction benefits no one. Individuals, they are too greedy. It's too much power."  
  
"Well, I can't argue with that," Hot Rod said. What he did know of Cybertron's history involved a few people hoarding a lot of resources -- including sparking new mechs. "Then what are we doing here?"  
  
"There's another way. A more personal way." Primus came to a halt on the platform just before the opening, where a spiraling panel prevented anyone from falling into the well. "They may resist, at first, but you must remind them that before the Quintessons came along, this method was fairly standard."  
  
Hot Rod groaned. "You're making my head hurt. This feels like a history lesson I didn't ask for."  
  
Primus laughed aloud, a great big laugh that seemed to send waves of something through the air, like a sonic cannon. Beneath him, the glyphs lit up in a rush, filling up each circle from top to bottom, one after another. The air hummed, and Hot Rod vibrated. He thought maybe he should be afraid, but all it did was tingle, and the Matrix wriggled a bit in his chassis.  
  
"My apologies, young Rodimus. Perhaps this is more your flavor." Primus' amusement was deep and rich, and as he tilted his head toward the opening of the Well, a holostate image began to take form above it. "Watch and learn."  
  
Hot Rod twisted his jaw, but he obeyed. Two mechs took shape in the image. There was no sound, and no background, and barely any color, but Hot Rod supposed none of that mattered. One of the mechs had wheels for kibble. The other had wings.  
  
They embraced, and then they kissed. Maybe they were in love.  
  
The image flickered, and the background became a little more visible, if still lacking in details. They were lying together, on a berth, the grounder on his back, the flyer between his legs. Hot Rod's optics widened when he realized what the rhythmic motions meant, and his face burned with heat.  
  
"Is that-- are you--" He couldn't complete the sentence. Did Primus really come to him in a dream to show him.... a smut film!?  
  
"This is not for titillation, young Rodimus. It is a demonstration," Primus said, but his tone was amused rather than full of censure. "Some things are better understood when seen rather than read."  
  
Hot Rod swallowed over a lump in his throat, and ignored the tingling over his sensornet, which started to trickle downward, toward his groin.  
  
The two mechs kissed and embraced and interfaced, and a bright light shimmered between them. It took Hot Rod an embarrassing amount of time to realize it was their sparks. They were spark-sharing.  
  
He gaped.  
  
Spark-sharing was incredibly intimate and very rarely done.  
  
Hot Rod was so glad this thing didn't have any sound. If he'd been able to hear their various noises of pleasure, he wouldn't have been able to endure. Especially with that bored look on Primus' face.  
  
At last, it seemed, the two mechs reached their, err, completion. Their chestplates closed, sealing away their sparks. They kissed and cuddled in the aftermath.  
  
"Okay, other than the spark stuff, I have interfaced before. I don't need a demonstration," Hot Rod said, unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone.  
  
Primus gave him a Look, and in that moment, Hot Rod resented him a little, because echoes of Springer were in that look. "That's only the first stage. Keep watching."  
  
"First stage of what?" Hot Rod asked, aghast, but Primus just pointed at the flickering image again.  
  
Hot Rod sighed and watched.  
  
The grounder and the flyer flickered as they went through a series of scenes. First, cuddling together, the flyer with his hand over the grounder’s midsection. It was a peaceful moment, and though Hot Rod couldn’t hear anything, he could see the affection in it. They looked like they were in love.  
  
Again, the image flickered, until the grounder sat on a berth and the flyer waved some kind of device over him -- a scanner maybe. Hot Rod couldn’t read the results, but whatever it was, they both grinned and embraced again, the flyer’s wings flicking with visible delight.  
  
 _Flicker._  
  
The two mechs were ‘facing again, and spark-sharing, too.  
  
 _Flicker._  
  
They were in some kind of medbay. The equipment looked outdated. Shadowed mechs moved around them, devoid of any kind of details. The grounder sat on a berth, clutching his chest, and the flyer hovered with worry flicking in his wings.  
  
The grounder’s chassis split open, like he was baring his spark, but his spark stayed hidden, and his armor parted further down, plates folding in on itself. He held his hands in front of his frame, and the flyer did, too, and something seemed to eject from his body. Something small and spherical, covered in a sheen of fluids.  
  
The grounder's chassis sealed itself, and the sphere in his arm pulsed a dull glow before it unfurled and unfolded, forming a very, very small mech. The smallest Hot Rod had ever seen. More like a baby. He'd seen the young of other alien species, and the size comparisons were apt. The mechlet was smaller, even, than a minicon or minibot.  
  
The grounder and the flyer kissed as the grounder held the bitlet. The flyer bent down, kissed the mechlet's forehead, and then the video fizzled to static before vanishing in a wisp of smoke.  
  
"There. Do you understand now?"  
  
Hot Rod gnawed on his bottom lip, gave Primus an askance look. "You're telling me we can have babies. Like organics?"  
  
"Similar, but not the same, yes."  
  
"But if we can do... that." He pointed at the image which was no longer there, but showing a hologram of Cybertron, set in a slow spin. "How come there haven't been any, err, accidents? How come no one knows?"  
  
Primus turned away from the hologram and started to climb, so Hot Rod hurried to follow, taking two steps for every one of Primus’. "The coding is no longer active, and its existence has been largely forgotten. On purpose, mind. The Quintessons, and then their successors, were not keen on their workers knowing they could reproduce on their own. They wanted a population which could be controlled."  
  
Ugh. More history lessons.  
  
"So the coding can be reactivated then?"  
  
"That is the knowledge you must carry back with you, yes." Primus looked over his shoulder, lips curved with amusement. "You are a new hope, young Rodimus, for every Cybertronian who's returned home."  
  
Hot Rod winced. "I don't want to be a new hope."  
  
Primus turned as they reached the top, and he rested both of his broad hands on Hot Rod's shoulders. Behind them, the glyphs gradually faded until they were dark again, and the hologram of Cybertron fizzled out.  
  
"Fate rarely calls upon us at a time of our choosing," he said.  
  
"That's pitslag," Hot Rod argued, wrinkling his nose. "You're the one who picked me. You could've picked someone else. There are loads of mechs more qualified."  
  
Primus cupped his face, his hands warm and sending an odd tingling through Hot Rod's frame. It wasn't quite paternal, but it wasn't romantic either. Hot Rod didn't know how to identify the touch, or how it made him feel.  
  
"You have the spark the Matrix needs, that all of Cybertron needs right now. You'll be great, a Prime of legend. You need only believe."  
  
Hot Rod scoffed. "I'm a colony mech responsible for killing thousands. Don't talk to me about greatness."  
  
Primus' gaze softened, from what had felt like harsh command. He sighed, long and slow, and bent a kiss upon Hot Rod's forehead. "You will see," he said, as Hot Rod's vision started to waver around him, like a heat mirage. "Good luck, young Rodimus. We will be watching."  
  
We?  
  
Hot Rod woke up, bright light streaming in through a window -- simulated light at that -- and the only sound in the room that of his own frame and cooling fans. The insistent beep was gone, disconnected at some point during the night.  
  
His arms were empty. Jazz had gone, too.  
  
Hot Rod sighed and flopped onto his belly, burying his face in the pillow. The burden of leadership, he lamented.  
  
His comm pinged. There was a message in the queue. From Jazz.  
  
A smile on his lips, Hot Rod activated it.  
  
" _Morning, Rodders. Sorry, I couldn't stay, but duty calls, ya know how it is. Got that weekly conference call, and Mags frowned something awful the last time I showed up smellin' like facin', so I gotta wash up first. Catch ya later!_ "  
  
Hot Rod sighed again.  
  
He and Jazz needed to talk. He didn't know if they'd get the chance. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. Not the kind of fast he liked.  
  
Hot Rod rolled over and slid out of the berth, feeling uncoordinated and clumsy with the new weight, the longer limbs, the broader spoiler. He felt like an alien in his own frame, and he didn't like that either.  
  
He couldn't be aberth all day, either. Primus wasn't taking this thing back, and Optimus wouldn't take it either, so Hot Rod was stuck with it. The least he could do was pass on the message Primus had given him. They weren't a dying species anymore. They had a chance.  
  
Everyone needed to know.  
  


***


	4. Chapter 4

  
"So. There's a new Prime." A lithe Seeker draped himself across Grimlock's back, his field a maelstrom of quickfire emotion. "Worried?"  
  
Grimlock grunted and tried in vain to focus on his datapad. "Why should I be? Decepticons aren't led by a Prime."  
  
"No, but Cybertron traditionally is. Mechs might push for that to happen again." Starscream's hands slid over his chestplate, talons teasing into seams.  
  
"They can push. Doesn't mean we have to obey."  
  
Starscream hummed and took a finial between his denta, applying just enough pressure to make Grimlock shiver. "You're one of us down to the core now, aren't you?"  
  
Grimlock put down the datapad. "Do you want something from me, my Seeker?"  
  
"Your attention. Obviously." Starscream's talons raked a thin line up his armor, so thin they'd be gone by morning.  
  
"You have it." Grimlock leaned back into his embrace, let his engine rumble enough to vibrate through Starscream, who shivered in response.  
  
Starscream hummed, and the vibrations teased Grimlock’s audial. “Just barely.” His hand skated further down, scraping the panel of his abdomen, sending little vibrations lower still. “We need to hold a meeting. Discuss the new developments. There will be repercussions.  
  
Grimlock surged upward, spun on a dime, caught his hands on Starscream’s perfect thighs and hefted his Seeker up in a smooth motion. “”You worry too much,” Grimlock said as he spun Starscream toward the berth and laid his Seeker out upon it, Starscream’s legs falling open to invite him.  
  
“Worry kept me alive. It’s only paranoia if it’s not true.” Starscream rose on his elbows, cocked his head, his glossa slicking his lips. “You worry too little.”  
  
“You are a menace,” Grimlock growled, but he chased Starscream onto the berth, fit himself between Starscream’s thighs, and spread his fingertips over the flat of Starscream’s wings.  
  
Starscream shivered and tossed his head back, his legs pressing inward, until they met the barrier of Grimlock’s. “More,” he demanded.  
  
He demanded an awful lot.  
  
Fortunately, Grimlock was always willing to give it to him. Within reason.  
  
Grimlock parted Starscream's thighs and scrubbed his mask against Starscream's valve, now bared to him, smearing the lubricant against it. "I can chase away some of that worry, if you want.”  
  
Starscream groaned and bucked up, grinding his array against Grimlock's face, leaving more slick behind. "Then keep going. Give me your mouth."  
  
Grimlock chuckled. He rubbed against Starscream’s valve again before he took a slight step back, enough room to transform. He loomed over Starscream in his alt-mode, but they’d made this something of an art over the past decade.  
  
Starscream moaned and canted his hips upward, thighs spread wide, valve bared and leaking. He tasted hot and sweet on Grimlock’s glossa, as careful as he was of his larger and sharper denta, though the occasional scrape always made Starscream shudder.  
  
He pawed at Grimlock’s snout as Grimlock licked at him, licked deep, flicked the tip of his glossa over Starscream’s nub, and lapped at him like a sweet treat. He laved Starscream’s spike, lapped up droplets of pre-fluid, and went back to the plump folds of his valve, over and over, licking him open.  
  
Starscream moaned and bucked up against him. “Oh, Primus,” he breathed, his lips swollen and raw from his own denta. “More. Frag me, damn it. Now, do it now.”  
  
Grimlock’s spark lurched in his chassis, need pulsing hot and heavy in his lines, pooling like magma in his pelvis. “Roll over,” he growled, and delight sizzled in Starscream’s field.  
  
He scrambled onto hands and knees, dropping down onto his elbows, presenting his aft, and what a fine aft it was. Grimlock licked over it before he took his mouth back to where it belonged most, sweeping over Starscream’s valve, laving his anterior nub.  
  
“In me!” Starscream demanded, pushing back, fisting the berthcovers, and how could Grimlock resist such a demand? Never. Not from his mate.  
  
He curled over Starscream -- careful, so careful, but still, this was an art by now -- and he guided himself to Starscream by memory. He caught the head of his spike on the lip of Starscream’s valve and sank in slowly, while Starscream moaned and shivered beneath him, wings twitching and flicking.  
  
Rhythm was difficult, and Grimlock had to rely more on Starscream’s motions than his own, because his hands were all but useless in this form. Which was why it was a good thing Starscream enjoyed this so much. A ripple of charge danced over his frame, his field bursting with arousal, and then he rocked back, taking Grimlock deeper, circling his hips, grinding the head of Grimlock’s spike against the deepest sensors.  
  
Starscream writhed, the slick noises of their movements loud in the room, the smell of interfacing so much sharper and potent in this mode. Grimlock growled, deep and rumbling, and Starscream echoed him with a moan. He shoved back, aft impacting with Grimlock’s pelvic array, a light clang of metal on metal.  
  
Overload spilled over Starscream’s frame in a sinuous wave of crackling charge and flicking wings. His valve clamped down, tight and wet, milking Grimlock’s spike. He roared, pumping hard and fast into his own overload, wobbly legs setting him off balance. He slipped free at the last moment, his spill painting the back of Starscream’s legs and aft and valve.  
  
Grimlock transformed between one vent and the next, scooping Starscream into his arms, and was rewarded with a pattern of messy kisses over his facemask.  
  
“I’m getting you dirty,” Starscream said as he squirmed, smearing their combined spill over Grimlock.  
  
“That’s what the washracks are for,” Grimlock retorted as Starscream wrapped his legs around Grimlock’s waist, hips rolling, grinding his valve over Grimlock’s softening spike.  
  
Well, if Starscream kept this up, it wouldn’t be softening for long.  
  
“I thought you wanted to call a meeting?” Grimlock asked, cupping Starscream’s aft and holding him closer for the grind.  
  
Starscream rolled his optics. “I know what I said.” He dug his talons into an armor seam, pricking the cables beneath. “Don’t mock me. Make better use of our time by putting that spike back in me.”  
  
Grimlock chuckled and rubbed his cheek against Starscream’s. “Yes, sweetspark.”  
  
“And don’t call me that!”  
  


~

  
  
Xaaron read the announcement three times before he believed it. There was a cautious hope in his spark. As much as he abhorred the war, and the leadership which had led to its inevitability, he still believed in Primus. He believed in the sanctity of the office of the Prime, for all that some of the previous occupants didn't deserve the title.  
  
A new Prime. A new Matrix.  
  
A new beginning.  
  
There were infinite possibilities now. Scores of information to be found in the Matrix. Ways to save themselves and their planet, ways to restore the things which had been lost.  
  
Ways to rock the current political balance.  
  
Xaaron rested the datapad on his desk. He sat back in his chair, shuttered his optics, and he considered.  
  
Many would protest a new, Matrix-given Prime. They would see it as a return of the old regime. Others would welcome it, relieved at last to have a leader granted to them by Cybertron itself. There would be those loyal to Optimus, Matrix or not. Some might protest a newbie, and a youngling of often brash behavior like Hot Rod.  
  
Rodimus Prime.  
  
A miracle and a complication.  
  
Xaaron steepled his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arm of the chair. He'd won leadership of the Neutrals through successive elections. His people might worry he'd bow to the Prime, bring him under the Autobot banner.  
  
No.  
  
If Xaaron were to guide the Neutrals under any banner, it would be the nascent United Cybertron, currently under discussion among himself and Optimus and Lord Grimlock. He had no wish to merge factions. He wanted unity without one.  
  
Xaaron sat for a moment longer before he sent out a summons for a council, those elected to help advise Xaaron and relay the will of the common mech. Skybyte and Metalhawk were both among this council, and Xaaron was certain they'd have a lot to say on the matter. Skybyte would be worried about possible Decepticon retaliation. Metalhawk, no doubt, would express concerns about the Autobots attempting to use their new Prime to affirm their right to Cybertron. He would have to be reminded he could only advise. He’d lost the moral high ground long ago.  
  
Ach. What a headache.  
  
A miracle and a headache.  
  


~

  
  
These weekly conferences were a boring, time-consuming, tedious necessity.  
  
Starscream enjoyed his position as Grimlock's second, for all that he'd wanted to lead the Decepticons, he discovered the true power lay in the leader's right hand. Grimlock relied on him for a great many tasks, and he actually listened to Starscream's advice. As second, Starscream influenced everything, but Grimlock was the one stuck with most of the paperwork and the boring meetings.  
  
It was win-win as far as Starscream was concerned.  
  
He could, on occasion, even skip these weekly conferences if there was nothing urgent to discuss, and all matters could easily be handled among Grimlock, Optimus, and Xaaron.  
  
Unfortunately, today's meeting was not such a one. The arrival and revelation of a new Prime and a new Matrix threw everything out of balance, and it was something that required the entire command staff of each of the three factions.  
  
Ratchet, Springer, and Perceptor were here, when rarely were they required to attend the conferences. The Decepticons themselves also had Deathsaurus, Knock Out and Flatline both, and Axiom in attendance. Among the Neutrals, rare faces in the form of Brainstorm, Ambulon, and Krok sat around the table, though the latter was a true neutral, rather than a member of the neutral faction.  
  
It had not yet devolved into an argument, but Starscream was pretty sure they were on their way to one. It was a bit inevitable.  
  
"The fact Hot Rod now carries a Matrix is irrelevant," Optimus said, for perhaps the third time since the meeting started, his hand rubbing his face. "He's not going to immediately ascend to leadership of the Autobots, and he's certainly not going to demand everyone fall under his banner. He's far too young and inexperienced."  
  
Metalhawk was front and center this time, rather than lurking in the background, and how he’d managed this, Starscream didn’t know. Words will be had with Skybyte later, rather than disrupt the flow of the discussion now. If they couldn’t keep Metalhawk leashed, he’d be barred from future conversations.  
  
No matter his reasons, Metalhawk _had_ attempted to destroy the peace and kill several members of Autobot and Decepticon command. He might still have favor with some of the Neutrals, and he was under Jazz’s thumb Starscream suspected, but he was still a criminal in Starscream’s optics.  
  
Metalhawk scoffed, "Inexperienced now, but he will learn soon enough, will he not?"  
  
Optimus sighed.  
  
"No one at any of these tables wants to return to war," Ultra Magnus said. "This situation is a surprise to everyone. No one knew such a thing were possible."  
  
"But we should be glad," Perceptor said, and in his peripheral vision, Starscream saw Brainstorm sit up straighter and wriggle his fingers in a wave, though Perceptor ignored him with practice.  
  
They were seeing each other. Starscream knew this. But Perceptor was slippery prey, and Brainstorm an inexperienced predator. Their courtship was something of a dance that would last decades, Starscream was sure.  
  
"If Hot Rod has been given the Matrix, it means Primus lives, and so does the Primal Spark. Cybertron itself will live again. That is something to be celebrated," Perceptor said.  
  
"It is the only thing to celebrate," Skybyte growled. He glared at the screen. "And all those artifacts you rescued? They were useless to you without a Matrix-blessed Prime. Now that you have one, you have far too many weapons at your disposal."  
  
"Weapons we don't intend to use," Optimus said.  
  
Metalhawk scoffed again. He was a one-note mech. "And all we have is your word on that."  
  
"Optimus is many things, but dishonorable he is not," Grimlock growled, a pointed glare directed at Metalhawk who colored and snapped his jaw together and sat back. Starscream almost beamed with pride, and yes, he did agree.  
  
While he would never be an Autobot, and he abhorred some of their softer practices, he had always found Optimus to be an honorable mech. Some of his subordinates on the other hand, well... they were the ones Starscream did not trust.  
  
Namely Jazz.  
  
Skybyte rolled his optics. "That's all well and good, but no offense Optimus, you aren't the one capable of wielding these weapons. Rodimus Prime is, and it's his honor we don't know or trust."  
  
Ah. And there it was. The crux of the matter. Optimus had earned trust, but this Hot Rod, this Rodimus Prime, was an unknown entity.  
  
Silence fell, and in it, Soundwave stirred, lifting a hand to his comm. His visor flashed, and Starscream knew his tells. He leaned in toward Optimus, must have murmured something, because Optimus sighed and nodded.  
  
"Rodimus is online and seeking entry into this conference," Optimus said. "I am inclined to allow it, as he is the topic of discussion. You can ask his intentions yourself."  
  
"Proceed," Xaaron said.  
  
"Let him in," Grimlock said.  
  
Starscream straightened in preparation for this. It was sure to be interesting.  
  
Optimus nodded, and Soundwave stood to open the door. A mech, brightly painted in orange and red and dark pink, strode into the room. He was unfamiliar to Starscream, but then, he had never paid much attention to the Autobot infantry. Besides, from what little he knew, Hot Rod had been wandering around with Ultra Magnus' crew, and they'd spent most of their time harrying Shockwave on Cybertron.  
  
"Rodimus, welcome," Optimus said, and the expression flickering across Hot Rod's face was one of abject discomfort.  
  
"Can we not use that name?" he asked. His gaze slid around the room, flicked to the monitors, but it lingered longest on Jazz, who seemed determined to avoid looking at the new Prime.  
  
Interesting.  
  
"It's what you are now. Learn to accept it," Metalhawk said, and Starscream's armor rankled just listening to the pompous aft's voice.  
  
Xaaron lifted a hand, however, and Metalhawk fell silent. "We are interested in your intentions for Cybertron, now that you have been gifted the Matrix, young Prime."  
  
Rodimus shook his head. "First of all, not a Prime no matter what this thing in my chest says, and second of all, I don't have any intentions. Like none whatsoever. I didn't have intentions before I got the Matrix, so I definitely don't have any now."  
  
Starscream stifled a laugh. Oh, he _liked_ Rodimus. He was quite refreshing.  
  
"And third of all," Rodimus continued, raising his voice a little louder, "I only interrupted this conference because if I don't, Primus is going to keep bugging me, and I really want a good night's sleep, so I came to tell you what he told me."  
  
"Oh, please," Starscream purred, waving one hand in invitation. "Do tell."  
  
Rodimus nodded. "Well, not that I need your permission. I was gonna do it anyway."  
  
Starscream chuckled while Ultra Magnus gave Rodimus a stern look. "Rodimus, you need to show some respect."  
  
"I'm not _Rodimus_ ," he hissed and leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. "And I'm not your Prime. I'm just a messenger."  
  
Optimus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please deliver the message. We can discuss the rest later."  
  
Starscream leaned in to Grimlock. "You're right. He's not a problem for us to worry about."  
  
"He's Optimus' problem," Grimlock murmured in agreement.  
  
Rodimus huffed. "Fine." He looked up, gaze skimming over everyone. "I'll start with the short version. He told me how to fix the population problem. We're not getting Vector Sigma or the Well back, which is the bad news, but the good news is, we don't need them. We can do it ourselves."  
  
"Ourselves?" Jazz echoed. "What the frag's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Rodimus flinched and didn't once look at Jazz. Curiouser and curiouser. "Exactly what it sounds like. Apparently we have some kind of latent code in our frames that allows us to reproduce on our own. All we need to do is reactivate it."  
  
"I... excuse me, what?" Metalhawk spluttered, for once sounding shocked rather than disdainful. "Do you mean to imply we are capable of breeding like organics?"  
  
Rodimus rolled his optics. "Well, I wouldn't use that term, but yeah. We are." He grinned, and it was sharp and irreverent. "Primus showed me a video of how."  
  
Stunned silence. Except for Jazz, who started to giggle.  
  
"Rodimus," Ultra Magnus said, in a tone so stern, one might confuse him for Rodimus' caretaker, "Are you attending this conference to imply that Primus not only told you we could revitalize the population, but also that he showed you some kind of.. of..."  
  
"Porn?" Brainstorm supplied, and he leaned forward, intent and eager. "Did you happen to get a copy of it? For, uh, scientific research and all."  
  
"I wish I did, honestly. That would've made this a lot easier." Rodimus gestured around. "Sorry, you're stuck with my pitslag of an explanation, but it was Primus' idea not mine."  
  
"Blasphemy!"  
  
"This is ridiculous."  
  
"This is no time for a joke, Hot Rod."  
  
"Have you no shame!"  
  
Predictably, there was outrage and uproar. Starscream did not take part. He was too busy contemplating. He rapped his fingers on the table. It was actually not entirely absurd. Their interfacing system made little sense for non-biological entities. There were also vast swathes of their coding still unexplored and unidentified.  
  
It was not outside the realm of possibility.  
  
“Hold,” Xaaron said, and the calmness in his tone was enough to cut through the bluster, restoring some order to the conference. “The young Prime may not be incorrect.”  
  
“Yes.” Cyclonus nodded in slow agreement, his face pinched with thought. “I seem to remember, distantly, something similar to what he speaks.”  
  
Huh.  
  
Well, given that Xaaron and Cyclonus both were among the eldest living Cybertronians, Starscream was inclined to believe them.  
  
“There _are_ vestigial organs in our frames which no one has ever been able to account for,” Ratchet mused aloud. “They regenerate themselves if damaged or removed, and for the most part, we ignore them. I read a thesis once as well, on the possibility of our spike-valve system having another function. That medic was laughed out of the board.”  
  
“No one wants to think of us having anything in common with organics. Duh,” Knock Out said, his face wrinkled with disgust. “I think I read that thesis, too, out of a sense of morbid curiosity. It sounded ridiculous. Who’d ever heard of a pregnant metallic?”  
  
Rodimus shook his head. “It’s similar, but not the same.” He gestured to his chassis, somewhere between his chest and belly. “The mechlet grew here, and the chest opened up and it came out, but it wasn’t, um, birthed.”  
  
“Primus didn’t happen to provide an instructional guide, did he?” Ratchet asked in a dry tone, humor curving at his lips.  
  
“That would be too convenient, Ratchet. You know how deities work,” Starscream said with a smirk. Amusement and excitement warred within him.  
  
Imagine! Not having to wait for approval or for the mercy of the Senate. The dwindling Seeker population could rebuild all on its own.  
  
Ultra Magnus held up a hand. “I apologize, but this sounds utterly ridiculous. If we were capable of such a thing, why have we not heard of it before?”  
  
“You want the short answer?” Rodimus asked with a roll of his shoulders. He flicked his hands into the air. “Control. Quintessons didn’t want a population they couldn’t manage, and the Senate came along and thought, gee, that’s a great idea. Let’s make sure no one can do anything unless we allow it.”  
  
Starscream wished the baby Prime didn’t make so much sense. Logic shouldn’t come out of a mech painted in garish flames and attitude.  
  
“And the long answer?” Xaaron asked.  
  
Rodimus sighed, his shoulders sank, and he looked very much like a young one forced to attend lessons. “I really, really hate history lessons.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Let’s see if I can sum this up.” He rolled his optics, looked at the ceiling. “So they wiped the memory of it from all the mechs they could. They started claiming natural-born mechs were inferior to Sparked or Well-born mechs. So by the time we fought off the Quintessons, most of us didn’t know we were supposed to remember this and those that did…” He trailed off and shrugged. “Well, they either died or purposefully hid the truth.”  
  
“I imagine relying on Vector Sigma or the Allspark was simpler as well,” Optimus mused aloud, head tilted in thought. “Those mechs emerged fully born, with enough basic programming to function as adults. I take it these natural-born mechs were not so lucky?”  
  
Rodimus shook his head. “I don’t think so?” He rubbed the back of his head. “I mean, I didn’t see much, but that looked like a baby to me.”  
  
“Time-consuming to raise then. And more resource heavy,” Xaaron mused aloud, one thumb on his chin, though interest vibrated in his voice. “Yes, I can see how it would gradually fall out of favor, how it would be erased from common knowledge until it was forgotten or purposefully concealed. Lucky for us, then, that it exists.”  
  
"Lucky?" Ratchet echoed, and he snorted. "We don't know anything about this process, how it works, how a tiny mech grows and learns. This is dangerous information. And worse, if we were to just dispense it willy-nilly, it's irresponsible!"  
  
Rodimus rolled his optics again. He seemed to do that a lot. "Look, organics have it figured out. I'm pretty sure we can, too. It's supposed to be natural. Who needs an instruction manual for that?"  
  
"It would be unethical to withhold this information from the population at large," Ultra Magnus said, and Starscream was glad he did, because the words were on the tip of his own glossa. Who were they to decide who could and couldn't have this information?  
  
"I don't want to control this," Optimus agreed aloud. "This was taken from us once, by mechs who decided it was their right to control us. I won't have that again. Anyone who wants to receive the update may do so."  
  
Ratchet scrubbed his forehead. "I'm not saying we shouldn't tell people about this, I'm just saying we should delay for a little bit. See what we can dig up out of the archives, get a few scientists together to discuss the particulars, come into it fully informed, and then disseminate the code."  
  
"That suggestion is not without merit," Xaaron said with a slow nod. "After all, gaining access to the code is not the same as immediately understanding how to make use of it. More helpful would be providing mecha with a basic understanding as we distribute the update."  
  
"Could always ask for volunteers," Grimlock said, and his tone affected boredom, but Starscream knew better. There was excitement and interest brewing in his spark, and Starscream had to admit, he felt the same.  
  
They would have to talk about this.  
  
"I can think of a few mechs who'd be willing to be the guinea pigs," Grimlock added.  
  
"Guinea pigs?" Xaaron echoed, with a tilt of his head.  
  
Jazz waved his hand. "Ya'll really oughta read the Earth guide I wrote up for everyone. They got the most interesting idioms."  
  
"Grimlock means someone who is willing to be the first to try the coding, to go through the process so as to provide a first-hand account of it," Starscream clarified, and he shifted in his chair, casting his mate an askance look. "I can think of a few mechs willing as well."  
  
Optimus steepled his fingers together and leaned forward against his table. "I'm willing to consider a delay so long as we set a timetable and stick to it."  
  
"In other words, no matter what your research discovers, we release access to the code as soon as the timetable is up," Starscream said. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "I think that's acceptable. And responsible."  
  
"Freedom to choose is important," Grimlock said, and his voice had a low, resonant firmness to it which made heat trickle into Starscream's belly. "But without the proper information, is it really a choice at all?"  
  
The Neutrals had been whispering amongst themselves, and now Xaaron offered, "We agree. A delay is reasonable. Though it would go far to show a little trust by releasing the code to those of us present."  
  
"Done. Send me your comm code," Rodimus said, before anyone else could speak up, and though there was a storm on Ultra Magnus' face, no one protested.  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation -- audible enough for the microphones to detect it.  
  
"You all have a month," Rodimus continued as he pushed himself upright, shoulders squaring, suddenly looking more like a Prime. "After that, I'm giving the override to anyone who wants it. Primus told me it's supposed to be for everyone, so that's what I'm going to do."  
  
"I do believe that is both fair and reasonable," Cyclonus said. "Is there anyone opposed to the current plan of action?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Rodimus grinned. "Well, that's settled." He dusted off his hands, spoiler twitching upright in a show of glee. "My work here is done. Can I go now?"  
  
Jazz snorted and buried a laugh behind his hand.  
  
"You invited yourself in here, Roddy, I think whether or not you go is up to you," Springer pointed out, his face twitching as he tried to sound stern, but couldn't hide his amusement.  
  
"You are going straight to your quarters to rest. You're still assimilating the Matrix," Ratchet said, and his tone brooked no argument.  
  
Rodimus wrinkled his nose. "I feel fine."  
  
"Rodimus, even I know better than to argue with Ratchet when it comes to my physical health," Optimus said.  
  
Rodimus sighed, shoulders slumping, and he trudged to the door -- immediately resembling a youngling rather than the Prime he'd briefly shown himself to do. "Fine. I'm going. I don't want to be part of this boring stuff anyway."  
  
"Get used to it, hot stuff, it's your future," Jazz said, and Rodimus shot him a look, a paragraph's worth of conversation passing between them before Rodimus vanished out the door, it closing and locking behind them.  
  
"Well," Starscream said with a bright grin and thinly concealed glee. "Is there anyone still worried about what _Rodimus Prime_ intends to do?"  
  


~

  
  
Drift waited for him outside of the conference room, pretending to be casual as he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, head tipped back as if taking a stasis nap.  
  
"Springer send you?" Hot Rod asked.  
  
"He just wants to make sure you find your way to the right place." Drift's optics onlined and he pushed off the wall. "How you doing, Roddy?"  
  
"I've been better." Hot Rod sighed as Drift fell into step beside him, not so easily matching pace now that Hot Rod had a head's worth of height to him now. "How're the Twins?"  
  
Drift smiled, and it was soft and bright, full of so much affection it made Hot Rod's spark ache. He touched his chasiss. "Sunstreaker's painting. Sideswipe is haggling with Swindle over the price of something."  
  
"They're good then?"  
  
"Better. A lot better." Drift tucked his hands behind his back and nudged Hot Rod toward a different hall, not the exit but the walkway to the command living quarters.  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"To your hab. They assigned you a new one," Drift said.  
  
Hot Rod frowned. "Assigned? What was wrong with the apartment I had before? I picked that one out myself."  
  
"It wasn't good enough for a Prime."  
  
Hot Rod cringed. He swung in front of Drift and stopped, forcing Drift to stop, too. "Please don't tell me you're buying into that slag. I'm not a Prime."  
  
"You are. But I understand you're not ready for it yet." Drift clapped his shoulders, reaching up to do so, and leaned his forehead against Hot Rod's. "Don't worry, you're still Roddy to me."  
  
Hot Rod shuttered his optics. He cycled a ventilation. "You won't treat me any different?"  
  
"Not if I can help it."  
  
Thank Primus.  
  
Hot Rod's shoulders sagged. Some of the tension drained out of him. "I'm not ready to be Rodimus Prime. I don't know that I even want to be."  
  
Drift squeezed his shoulders, and Hot Rod took comfort from it. "You have time to think about it at least. You know Optimus is going to help you as much as he can. I'm here for you, Springer always has your back, and Jazz--"  
  
Hot Rod snorted. "I'm going to stop you right there." He patted Drift's hands and took a step back. "Jazz is just a friend with very good benefits. I can't expect him to want to deal with this."  
  
"But you want him to."  
  
Hot Rod started walking and Drift hurried to catch up, though because he was Drift, he managed to do it elegantly and gracefully, while Hot Rod sounded like a rampaging Sharkticon.  
  
"I know better than to want that," Hot Rod said quietly.  
  
"The very fact that you do means you and Jazz need to have a conversation," Drift said, and it wasn't anything he hadn't said before.  
  
Hot Rod shook his head. "I know how that conversation will end, and I don't want that. I'm fine with things the way they are."  
  
Drift gave him a Look. "Lying is not one of your strong suits. Guess that's why Primus likes you."  
  
"Can we not talk about either of those subjects?"  
  
Drift stopped in front of a door, and as Hot Rod took a moment to actually look around, he realized the hallway was unfamiliar to him, but only in the sense he'd never been here before. It was the same building where Optimus lived with Soundwave. And Ultra Magnus.  
  
"Kind of impossible to ignore one of them," Drift said, and gestured to the control panel which glowed an unwelcoming orange at them. "They keyed it to your energy signature."  
  
Hot Rod gnawed on the inside of his cheek and pressed his hand to the panel. It chimed cheerfully and the door whooshed open, lights immediately illuminating the space within.  
  
' _Welcome home, Rodimus Prime_ ,' an automated voice said.  
  
First of all, that was going to have to go.  
  
"After you," Drift said with an exaggerated bow.  
  
Hot Rod sighed, and he stepped into what was apparently his new home, though he was a little annoyed they hadn't asked him first. What was wrong with his old apartment? It was a good size for a bachelor. Easy to clean. Close to his friends and unit. Far from his brother.  
  
He liked his old apartment.  
  
Though to be fair, this one was nice. Easily twice the size, with a massive main room filled with furniture that looked comfortable and new. It had a balcony and big windows and glass doors. There was an energon prep and storage room, a private washrack, and two berthrooms -- one for himself and one for guests.  
  
"This is ridiculous," Hot Rod spluttered, turning in a slow circle, his spark spinning into a smaller and smaller ball. "I can't live here. This isn't me."  
  
"It is now." Drift surveyed his new apartment with him and nodded approvingly. "Huh. I'm a little jealous. I should tell my twins we need to find a new place."  
  
"I hate it."  
  
"No, you hate what it represents."  
  
Hot Rod revved his engine. He hated how right Drift was. Hot Rod enjoyed the space, the personal washrack, the gigantic vidscreen, the balcony and the view. He did not like that the choice was made for him, that all of his belongings were in his old, smaller apartment that he'd found and fixed up and made his home, all on his own.  
  
This was a place for a Prime to live, and Hot Rod was not a Prime.  
  
"It's a lot to take in, I know," Drift said as he knocked shoulders with Hot Rod, his field offering comfort and solidarity. "Get some rest, like Ratchet said. I'll come back later and we can go get your stuff, officially move you in. Sound good?"  
  
"Do I really have a choice?" Hot Rod asked.  
  
Drift patted him on the shoulder. "You know you do. Just like you know you're not the type to run away either. I believe in you. Try believing in yourself, yeah?"  
  
Hot Rod gave him a playful push toward the door. "Go snuggle those twins or something. Quit pretending like you're old and wise already."  
  
"It's not pretending if it's true," Drift said, but he let himself out, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he did. "Rest. I'll be back later."  
  
Hot Rod didn't want to rest. Saying as much would be pointless, so he didn't.  
  
He flopped down in the fluffy couch, which cushioned his spoiler in a fine foam, and groaned with the decadence of it. He could've gotten this in his own apartment, if he wanted. There was less of an economy on Cybertron and more a sense of everyone contributing for the greater good. He didn't have to worry about not being able to afford things.  
  
Somehow, this still felt too extravagant. Like he was in a place he didn't belong.  
  
A cold, empty place.  
  
He should have asked Drift to stay.  
  
Hot Rod sighed. He considered his comm. As long as he was saying goodbye to the things he wasn't anymore, he supposed he might as well get this rejection over as well.  
  
He dialed Jazz. Maybe the meeting was still in full-swing, maybe not.  
  
There was no answer. Hot Rod left a message, part of him doubting it would ever be returned. They were friends, they shared a berth frequently. From the outside, it looked as though they were dating, but Hot Rod knew better. No strings attached, that was the agreement. Jazz didn't want strings.  
  
And Rodimus Prime came with a Pit of a lot of strings.  
  
Hot Rod wandered around the apartment again. He opened the door to the balcony and stepped out, leaning on the rail to look over Polyhex, the mix of old and new construction, puffs of smoke rising in the sky from industry, mechs milling about below. Far, far less than there used to be, according to the history vids.  
  
He sort of wished he could have been here, for the Cybertron that was. Nyon Delta had been large for a colony, but nothing like the tall spires and crowds of Cybertron. Somedays, Cybertron didn't feel much like home. But since Hot Rod had burned his own, well, he supposed he didn't have a right to long for it.  
  
His door chimed, audible even from the balcony.  
  
Hot Rod answered it, dimly hoping it would be Jazz, but unsurprised to find Springer on the other side of the door. "I see you found my new apartment," he said.  
  
"It's only a few floors above mine." Springer grinned and sort of leaned forward, peering over Hot Rod's shoulders. "Pretty nice, little bro. Can I come in?"  
  
"Are you going to yell?" Hot Rod asked warily, stepping aside.  
  
"Since when do I yell?"  
  
"Always."  
  
Springer chuckled and before Hot Rod knew it, Springer swept him into an embrace, though it wasn't as easy as it used to be, since Hot Rod was as tall as Springer now, though still less massive.  
  
"You had me worried," Springer said with a chassis-creaking squeeze. "When Jazz said you'd vanished, I nearly had a spark-attack."  
  
Hot Rod sighed and let himself be squeezed. "I'm fine. You gotta stop worrying so much. You know I can take care of myself, right?"  
  
"Recent events would suggest otherwise."  
  
"Recent events are statistical anomalies and shouldn't be taken as the standard," Hot Rod parroted back, just as Ironfist had taught him, and a rolling chuckle rumbled through Springer's frame as he set Hot Rod back down on his feet.  
  
Springer laughed. "I'm never going to forgive Ironfist for teaching you that." He cupped Hot Rod's face, looking him over. "How're you feeling? Really?"  
  
"Healthy, I guess. I mean, I'm tired, but apparently that's normal?" Hot Rod slipped out of Springer's embrace. He loved his adoptive brother, he truly did, but Springer smothered him more often than not, and Hot Rod had reached the point of oversaturation. "The conference over then?"  
  
"Yeah. Has been since a few minutes after you left. There was a lot to think about so we decided to reconvene later. Probably you'll have to come."  
  
Springer followed him into the main room, and they both flopped down into comfortable furniture.  
  
"Can't wait," Hot Rod lied. He slumped in the chair, suppressing a sigh, but unable to stop his frown.  
  
Springer looked around. "You're alone?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I be?" Hot Rod asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.  
  
Springer shrugged, like he was trying to be nonchalant, but Hot Rod wasn't stupid, and Springer was as transparent as glass. "Thought Jazz would be here is all. He certainly cut out of the conference as soon as he could."  
  
And there it was.  
  
Hot Rod sighed. "Can we not right now?"  
  
"I'm just making an observation."  
  
"No, you're trying to stick your nose into my business. Again."  
  
Springer frowned, and his armor bristled. "I'm worried about you."  
  
Hot Rod shook his head. He'd reached capacity for the pitslag burying him, and this just took the top of the heap. "You don't approve of Jazz, not that it's your place to approve of him, and so you keep trying to obviously and subtly get me to walk away from him."  
  
"You're going to get hurt," Springer said, exasperated, engine giving a dull roar before he set it back into an idle. "I'm not going to apologize for not wanting that to happen."  
  
"Then I get hurt," Hot Rod snapped and sat back in the couch, suddenly exhausted when he hadn't been before. "That's what happens. Mechs get hurt. That's life. It's my choice, my life, and my mistakes to make. Just leave me be already."  
  
Springer opened his mouth, but then he clamped it shut again. He sighed an aggrieved sigh and pushed to his feet. "You're a Prime now, Roddy. That comes with certain expectations. I don't aim to tell you what to do, I just want you to keep that in mind."  
  
Expectations that didn't include an association with Jazz, Hot Rod gathered.  
  
"Noted," he said.  
  
"Get some rest," Springer said, and yes, there was genuine concern in his optics. For all the irritating bluster he spat about Jazz, Hot Rod understood Springer cared for him.  
  
He just had poor ways of showing it.  
  
"I will," Hot Rod said with a sigh, a concession, and he knew it.  
  
Springer left.  
  
Hot Rod rose from the couch, dimmed the lights, made sure the main door and the balcony were locked. He wandered into the berthroom with the largest berth and flopped down on it, face first. It was quiet in here, nothing but the hum of the air recyclers to fill the silence.  
  
He dialed Jazz again.  
  
No answer.  
  
Hot Rod sighed.  
  
This berth really was too large for one.  
  


***


	5. Chapter 5

Jazz had not, in fact, attended the weekly conference call, but that was par for the course. They didn't expect him to. His attendance was rarely required. This time, he knew, was probably different, but Soundwave had kept him in the loop, and ran interference with Springer.  
  
Good old Soundwave.  
  
Jazz had instead climbed to the top of a very familiar building, and perched on a very familiar roof. Well, familiar to him at any rate. It was here, five years ago, he'd first ran into Hot Rod, a proposition was made, and a tentative fling had become a constant relationship with benefits. Though relationship was probably too heavy a term.  
  
They were friends. They fragged. And that was enough. It had to be enough. Emotional entanglements were not Jazz's wheelhouse. He couldn't afford for them to be.  
  
Jazz slipped a vibroknife from subspace. He idly flipped it from hand to hand, balanced it on the tips of his fingers, fiddled with it. Gave half his processor something to focus on, while it churned on a never-ending cascade of 'what ifs' and 'should haves' and the unfairness of the universe.  
  
Hot Rod was to be a Prime. Hot Rod _is_ a Prime. He _is_ Rodimus Prime whether he liked it or not.  
  
Hot Rod was to be Rodimus Prime and nowhere in his life did he have space for someone like Jazz. He needed someone by his side to support him, to guide him, to hold him up. Not a wishy-washy saboteur who couldn't keep his own emotions on lock.  
  
Begrudgingly, Jazz wondered if Springer was right. Of course, if Primus hadn't chosen Hot Rod, they could have kept on the way they were just fine. Now, everything was different. Now, there was a Matrix involved. Now, there would be expectations, and Jazz couldn't fill those expectations.  
  
It would be better, wouldn't it, to make a clean break. To end it now, before they got any deeper, so Hot Rod could be angry and disappointed, maybe even hate Jazz a little. Easier to let go of something you hated, right? Easier to realize you weren't losing a damn thing.  
  
 _Flick. Flick. Flick._  
  
Jazz's spark ached. Hot Rod was a sweetness he never should have let himself taste, but it was too late now. He was head over heels, he wanted to keep Hot Rod, and quite obviously, the universe was telling him he shouldn't.  
  
Funny how it had taken almost losing Hot Rod to realize how much he wanted to keep him forever, only to realize all in the same ventilation, he couldn't keep Hot Rod anyway. Hot Rod was to be Rodimus was to be Prime, and he'd never be Jazz's alone. He'd always belong to Primus, to all of Cybertron. He couldn't have someone like Jazz by his side.  
  
Jazz sighed and took aim at one of the decorative ramparts of the roof. With a snap of his wrist, the vibroknife whistled through the air, landing dead center on an ornate whorl with a loud thud.  
  
Fuck Primus.  
  
"Did you even aim?"  
  
Jazz didn't startle. He never startled. People didn't sneak up on Jazz. It didn't happen. He did, however, tense all over, and reached for a blaster before he recognized the voice.  
  
Jazz scowled as a head popped into view over the side of the roof, followed immediately by a familiar frame which laboriously pulled itself over the side.  
  
"Primus, you climb this often?" Smokescreen asked with an exhausted huff, his sensory panels lying limp behind him, his vents whirring noisily.  
  
"I came up here to be alone," Jazz said.  
  
"Then maybe you shouldn't have been broadcasting your misery." Smokescreen rolled his optics and stood, making a show of dusting himself off. "So. Fascinating news about Hot Rod, huh?"  
  
Jazz side-eyed him. "Smokescreen. I love you. But if you start on this pitslag, I will toss ya from this roof."  
  
Smokescreen chuckled and dropped down to sit beside him. "Empty threats, I know." He tilted his head and gave Jazz that look he hated so much. The one which peeled apart the layers to find the truth beneath. "You should be with Hot Rod, not up here."  
  
Jazz jerked up, stomping across the roof to yank his knife out of the rampart. "He's got Prime, and Ratchet, and Springer. I don't think he needs me loiterin' around, lookin' for a 'face."  
  
"Right. Because it's only about interfacing, and that would be the only reason you'd spend time with him," Smokescreen said, and his tone rankled on Jazz, made him want to turn and make a target of Smokescreen's face.  
  
"You're playin' with fire, mech," Jazz warned.  
  
Smokescreen gave him a lazy grin. "It's my _modus operandi_." He patted the ground next to him. "Come. Sit. Talk to me. You know I ain't gonna judge." He tilted his head. "Though if you're back on the market again, it benefits me."  
  
Jazz snorted and flipped his vibroknife back into subspace with a flourish. "I never left the market."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Don't use that tone on me. I'm a free agent!"  
  
Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge. He spread his hands. "Hey, I wasn't arguing otherwise." He smiled, but it reeked of judgment and disbelief.  
  
Jazz side-eyed him. "Yer judgin' me. I can hear it." He flopped down next to Smokescreen, though out of reach and further from the probing read of Smokescreen's field. "What you come up here for except to taunt me?"  
  
"I came to stop you from doing something stupid," Smokescreen said. He curled his legs into lotus, propping one elbow on his knees and his chin on his palm. "I know that look. You're about to rabbit."  
  
"From what?" Jazz demanded, the undersides of his armor itching. He hated when Smokescreen was right, which was nearly always.  
  
Smokescreen lifted an orbital ridge. "You need me to spell it out for you to show you I know? I don't think you want to hear what I'm going to say."  
  
"Frag you," Jazz hissed and flicked his vibroknife from one hand to the other with an ease so practiced, it barely distracted him anymore.  
  
"Look," Smokescreen said with a sigh. "I was there. I'm one of the few mechs who can say that. I was there from the beginning. I know what you're thinking. You were wrong then, and you're wrong now. You _can_ have it. You just gotta ask for it."  
  
"That's where you're wrong." Jazz jerked to his feet, his engine revving, an urgency crawling under his armor, like there was battle on the horizon. He could taste it in the air.  
  
"Am I." Smokescreen's tone was perfectly calm, as if he hadn't just tapped into Jazz's fight-or-flight instincts. He stood, dusting himself of imaginary grit. "How about you let Hot Rod decide that? Since you never gave Optimus the opportunity."  
  
Jazz stumbled backward, the words feeling like a physical blow, Smokescreen's tone mild but his words a knife to the spark.  
  
He bared his denta. "That's a low blow."  
  
"But it's the truth." Smokescreen moved closer, and though he wasn't physically aggressive, his words hit like an attack. "When it comes to your spark, you're afraid, so rather than let anyone choose, you decide for them, that way you stay safe. You can hurt yourself, but no one can hurt you."  
  
“Shut your mouth.” Jazz shoved a finger at Smokescreen’s chassis. “I don’t play with that psychological pitslag. Go pretend to be a therapist with someone else.”  
  
Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge. “I don’t need a degree to know you’re a mass of issues wrapped around a vibroknife, Jazz. And a cowardly one at that.” He narrowed his optics, and dared take one step into range. “You lost Optimus, and now you’re throwing Hot Rod away, too. But at least you’ll be safe, right?”  
  
Jazz struck.  
  
He knew Smokescreen was goading him, and he did it anyway. He took no satisfaction in the way Smokescreen stumbled back, clutching his jaw, pain a brief spike in his field, optics flickering.  
  
Jazz wasn't a brawler. But he'd made his point.  
  
"Get your psychiatric aft out of my business," Jazz hissed, and stormed past Smokescreen, leaping over the side of the roof and skidding down the ladder with anger and guilt both brewing in his spark.  
  
He knew what he was doing. He didn't need Smokescreen to peel open wounds, and pry him apart.  
  
This was the best for everyone.  
  
Jazz had to go away.  
  


~

  
  
It was a quiet night.  
  
Then again, most nights in Visages were quiet. Unlike Swerve's and Blurr's more rowdier bars, Visages was a classy place. For intimate conversation. For contemplation.  
  
Mirage liked quiet.  
  
Then the door opened and Smokescreen strode inside, and Mirage had a feeling it would be quiet no longer. His few patrons looked up to acknowledge the newcomer before going back to their drinks and soft conversation.  
  
Smokescreen made a beeline for the bar, and Mirage by proxy. He had a lazy grin and a downward cant to his sensory panels, but it was the shadow of bruised derma and the slight dent on his chin which told a story.  
  
"My usual, if you please," Smokescreen said as he hopped up onto the barstool and patted his hands on the counter.  
  
Mirage tilted his head and cupped a knuckle under Smokescreen's chin. "What happened here?" he asked, stroking a thumb along the bruise.  
  
Smokescreen's grin turned sly. "You heard about Hot Rod, right?"  
  
Mirage had indeed. He dropped his hand and started mixing Smokescreen's favorite cocktail as he pondered Smokescreen's implication. Hot Rod was to be Rodimus Prime. This was destined to cause a fall out with the Cybertronian politics. But on a more personal level...  
  
"Ah," Mirage said, and slid the cocktail across the bar toward Smokescreen. "That's what you get for poking a hornet's nest."  
  
Smokescreen's shoulders hunched. "I'm just tired of watching him throw his spark into the slag because he's a coward," he muttered.  
  
Mirage arched a brow. "And how are you braver?"  
  
Smokescreen flinched. "You cut to the spark of things as always, dearling." He idly stirred the lance-shaped stick Mirage had stuck in his drink. "Can't I get a bit of sympathy?"  
  
"I have some ice in the freezer."  
  
Smokescreen barked a laugh, loud enough it cracked the quiet of Visages and made a few patrons cringe. "I was thinking of something more tender, but fine, fine. It'll heal eventually."  
  
"Did you at least do some good to earn that bruise?" Mirage started gathering a few discarded dishes, while keeping his attention on their conversation.  
  
"Nope. He rabbited."  
  
"So you made it worse."  
  
Smokescreen took a long, noisy slurp of his cocktail. "Probably."  
  
Mirage sighed. Smokescreen should have known better than to tackle that bundle of vibroknife-wielding issues. Jazz had been running from his spark for far too long for a little conversation to do him much good. He needed actions more than words.  
  
No, Jazz was a problem only Hot Rod could solve. Mirage made a mental note to speak to the new Prime.  
  
"How's Cliffjumper?"  
  
"Doing fine," Mirage answered as he loaded the dishwasher in preparation for closing. "I don't see him much these days. He helps Glyph more often than not."  
  
Smokescreen nodded as he sipped. "Good, good. At least someone's moving on." He gave Mirage a side-eye, keen look, and there was an opening Mirage did not intend to take.  
  
Smokescreen was a mech endlessly searching for someone else's problem to solve, if only to avoid his own. It was as if he thought he could find happiness by helping others achieve theirs.  
  
'Physician, heal thyself,' Mirage thought with a sigh.  
  
"Time continues to move forward. It's inevitable. We can either move with it, or let it flow around us," Mirage said and tapped the counter in front of Smokescreen. "You want another?"  
  
Smokescreen dragged his finger around the rim of the glass. "You gonna let me crash on your couch?"  
  
"You know you're always welcome."  
  
"Then yeah, give me another."  
  
Mirage obliged, mixing him a second cocktail and pushing it across the counter. He knew, by the end of the night, Smokescreen would be completely sloshed, and Mirage would have to halfway carry Smokescreen up to his quarters, dumping him on the couch to get some sleep.  
  
It was only fair.  
  
Smokescreen had looked after Mirage when he was at his weakest. He would do the same for Smokescreen as well.  
  
That's what friends were for.  
  


~

  
  
The meeting adjourned, the windscreen powered down, and Grimlock cycled a ventilation in preparation for the second half of the madness. His head throbbed in anticipation of the arguments to come.  
  
"Well," Starscream said with an unsurprising smirk, "that happened. Trust the Autobots to be the ones to upset the status quo."  
  
"To be fair, I don't think any of them expected this," Deathsaurus replied with a little laugh. His wings visibly flicked. "We all thought Primus, and Cybertron by extension, was dead."  
  
"Primus cannot die," Cyclonus said, though his optics were narrowed in thought, one hand rapping softly on the table. "I am, however, disappointed. Could he not have chosen someone other than an Autobot?"  
  
"I don't think Primus cares about factions," Oilslick drawled, splaying redolent across his chair. Everything Oilslick did was lazy, save for his scientific efforts. Grimlock would not have accepted him into the council if he wasn't worth the time.  
  
Grimlock sighed and pressed his temples. "The issue is that there is now a Prime with a Matrix which means there's a fair chance a faction of Cybertronians are going to start demanding a unified Cybertron under said Prime."  
  
"You fear a return to war," Cyclonus summarized.  
  
Deathsaurus' engine rumbled in a growl. "If we don't leap to comply, they may force the issue. The Neutrals still outnumber us, and many Autobots and some Decepticons would flock to a true Prime."  
  
"Absolutely not," Starscream said with a shake of his head. "I don't care what mystical dreams or artifacts the Autobots have. We'll unite, but not under a Prime. I refuse to live on a planet where I don't have a voice."  
  
Grimlock squeezed Starscream's thigh under the table. "We will not allow that. I can assure you."  
  
"We will work with a Prime, but we won't serve under one," Cyclonus agreed with a solemn nod. "Fortunately, the Autobots can be reasoned with. We will simply have to ensure we speak up and make our intentions known."  
  
"I'm more interested in the fact this means the Primal Spark is awake," Oilslick said. He steepled his fingers together, looking over the tips of them. "That means Cybertron lives once more. It is good news."  
  
"So's the gestational code, to be fair." Knock Out wrinkled his nose. "For whoever wants to reproduce like an organic." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "Not that I'm one of them."  
  
Deathsaurus folded his arms on the edge of the table, his wings twitching over his shoulders. "Repopulating the planet has been a complaint since we all came back. Pretty sure there's gonna be plenty of mechs eager to give this a try."  
  
"Mated pairs and the like," Flatline echoed, but his engine offered a dull rumble. "Will we be offering the code freely or do we intend to be more... circumspect?"  
  
Grimlock did not approve of the direction this conversation was taking. "You mean to control who we allow to reproduce?"  
  
A low rumble of discontent rippled through the conference room while Flatline shook his head. “No such thing! I only meant, perhaps, we should consider that not everyone is suitable to caring for a sparkling. And to allow mechs to engage in this process without clear knowledge would be irresponsible of us.”  
  
Starscream snorted and rolled his optics. “Look, Flatline, I get what you’re saying, I do. But as soon as the code hits the population, we can’t control it. Mechs can share with whomever they want. It’s out of our hands at that point.”  
  
“And you’re treading on dangerous, Senate-like ground to even suggest we should limit who can have the code in the first place,” Deathsaurus said, giving Flatline a sideways glance that Grimlock suspected he’d have to quell sooner rather than later.  
  
Deathsaurus, in particular, took offense to any idea of restrictions. Grimlock could sympathize. Mechs who had beast forms like himself and Deathsaurus, they were often seen as lesser, even more than those who had utility modes like the datacards and the equipment.  
  
Under the old regime, someone like Grimlock or Deathsaurus would not have been allowed to raise or mentor a spark.  
  
“Worrying about the safety of these… young sparks is a legitimate concern,” Oilslick said with a bit of a hum to his vocalizer. “There are some disgusting creatures out in the world, hiding behind an armor of innocence.”  
  
Grimlock, also, had to concede Oilslick’s point. He’d spent time on Earth. He knew that predators existed. He’d seen them among the humans, and while Cybertronians didn’t have children per se, he could see where a predator might find a Cybertronian child as something easy to manipulate, coerce, or use.  
  
Unfortunately, it was also impossible to know who were the threats. Grimlock could make a fair guess -- every one he still had in prison with no intention of freeing, for example. But there were many mechs of all factions running free. It was impossible to screen for something of this nature.  
  
“There will be oversight. It’s a simple process,” Cyclonus said and rapped his fingers on the table. “In theory.” He tipped his head toward Flatline and Knock Out. “Perhaps the medics can put their heads together and come up with a way to monitor the sparklings for proper care.”  
  
The humans had something like that. Social services, they called it. Grimlock thought the whole of Cybertron could benefit from a group whose sole purpose was to keep an optic on the population and ensure everyone was getting the care they needed.  
  
It had been a long war, after all.  
  
“Regardless, delaying the release of the code until we can offer a guide as to how to properly implement it is the least I think we should do,” Flatline said. “Otherwise my medbay will be filled with mechs who have no clue what they’re doing, and I’ll have no clue how to fix it either.”  
  
Grimlock nodded. “I am not opposed to waiting until we have more information.” He glanced across the room. “Does anyone disagree?”  
  
No one spoke up.  
  
Good.  
  
“Well, that’s settled,” Starscream said with a smirk. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, cables tensing and loosening with audible creaks. “We’re not going to bow to a Prime, and we’re going to look after our people. I really don’t see what’s left to discuss.”  
  
Grimlock swallowed a laugh. Starscream’s irreverence for the more tedious portions of leadership never ceased to amuse him.  
  
The meeting dissolved shortly thereafter, with Knock Out looking particularly contemplative, and Flatline and Oilslick bending their heads together, already in conversation over the potential oversight committee. Grimlock was sure there was going to be more discussion as they received more information, but for now, his leadership was mollified, and that would have to do.  
  
Grimlock waited until they were all gone to swivel his chair toward Starscream, and grab the arms of Starscream’s chair to swivel his Seeker toward him. Starscream’s optics widened before he steered his surprise toward something warm and welcoming.  
  
“Planning on defiling our conference room again, my lord?” Starscream purred, in that tone he knew Grimlock loved, because it sent a shiver right down his spinal strut, as did the honorific, even if it was given in jest.  
  
Grimlock took Starscream’s hands, rubbing his thumbs over the back of them. He heard Starscream’s hitched ventilation. He modulated his field, rushing it warm and tender over Starscream’s.  
  
“What do you think?” Grimlock asked as he tugged Starscream a bit closer, until their fields come into shivering contact, and they couldn’t lie to each other. Well, at least not without putting significant effort into it.  
  
Starscream cocked his head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”  
  
“About children,” Grimlock clarified, and when Starscream cycled his optics and his hands jerked a little in Grimlock’s grasp, he added, “You and me trying this new process and creating children, to be even more specific.”  
  
Starscream’s mouth opened, then closed again. His fingers curled around Grimlock’s, tightening. His field said nothing, however, but Grimlock could almost hear the cogs churning in Starscream’s processor.  
  
“I have no issue being the one who carries the bitlet,” Grimlock said, on the chance that was what worried Starscream the most.  
  
Starscream shook his head. “That’s not the issue.” He smiled, and it was Grimlock’s favorite smile, the soft and gentle one he only showed in private, to no one else but Grimlock. It was when Starscream, the real Starscream shone through. “You know, on old Cybertron, I would’ve never been trusted with a young spark.”  
  
“Well, neither would I.”  
  
Starscream chuckled, dark and raspy. His gaze slid to the side. “Under Megatron, this wouldn’t have happened. If we’d let him have his way, Primus would’ve never forgiven us.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
Grimlock stroked his thumb along the back of Starscream’s hands again. “What I’m not hearing is an answer. Do you need time to think about it?”  
  
“No. I already know what I want to do.” Starscream grinned at him. “Sure. Let’s do it. You and me. Let’s pave the way for everyone else. Set an example.” He barked a laugh, and true amusement rippled through his vocals. “Primus, I wish that stuffy old Senate could see it now. They’d keel over from sheer outrage.”  
  
“You did a pretty good job getting rid of them on your own.”  
  
Starscream gave him a sly look. “Indeed I did.” He climbed into Grimlock’s lap, draping Grimlock’s arms over his shoulders. “We could get started if you want. I know it starts with you spiking me.” He rocked his hips pointedly.  
  
“And spark-sharing,” Grimlock reminded him, dragging one hand down Starscream’s central seam.  
  
“I bonded with you. I think I can handle a little spark-sharing,” Starscream said dryly. He pressed his forehead to Grimlock’s, wings twitching in a mad rhythm behind him. “At the very least, it’s going to be fun to practice.”  
  
Grimlock chuckled. “Yes, it will.”  
  


~

  
  
"Do you think we'll need a radiometer?"  
  
"I vote yes to anything you think we'll need. I'd rather have and not need it, then need it and not have it."  
  
"You make a very valid point. Brainstorm, have you arranged transportation yet?"  
  
"I'm still on hold."  
  
"Did you give them my designation?"  
  
"I gave them mine."  
  
Perceptor rolled his optics and kept packing, far more orderly than Wheeljack's haphazard toss of equipment into a crate. Wheeljack might be fine with digging through a mass of unorganized tools, but Perceptor was not.  
  
"I'm getting a ping," Wheeljack said as he scuttled closer, reaching over Perceptor to pull down the bin of transducers. "Wanna guess who it's from?"  
  
Perceptor frowned. "Shockwave?" When Wheeljack nodded, Perceptor barely concealed his scowl. "Word certainly travels fast. I assume he wants to come with us?"  
  
"You assume correctly."  
  
"Ignore him."  
  
Wheeljack winced. "He gets relentless when I do. I'm just gonna refuse. He can stay in his lab, and we'll send him pertinent data if we feel like it."  
  
"If at all." Perceptor carefully folded a tripod for a time-lapse camera into a crate, notching it between several sturdy bracing poles. "Shockwave may be brilliant, but I am not keen on giving him access to data which may encourage him to continue his unethical pursuits."  
  
"I got through," Brainstorm said as he sidled up to join them, quickly taking in their packed crates. "One of the old shuttles is still in good shape. We could use it." He tapped his mouthguard. "You know if you just let me use my--"  
  
"No," Perceptor said.  
  
"--shrinkray, this would make packing a whole lot easier," Brainstorm continued, undeterred.  
  
Wheeljack chuckled and patted Brainstorm on the shoulder, probably to take the sting out of Perceptor's rejection. "Don't take it personally. You know how Percy is about his toys."  
  
"I never take it personal. Not anymore." Brainstorm fluttered a wink at Perceptor, who studiously ignored it.  
  
Sometimes, he regretted allowing Brainstorm into his berth. The garrulous scientist, while brilliant in his own right, could be rather obnoxious, and if Perceptor wasn't so damn fond of Brainstorm, he'd have walked away months ago.  
  
But it was, Perceptor had learned long ago, impossible to hate Brainstorm, and stupidly easy to love him.  
  
Love, by the way Perceptor had reasoned, made one stupid. Himself included.  
  
"Help us finish packing. I'd like to be at the site within the hour," Perceptor said, ignoring their shared tittering and glances, because they amused themselves at Perceptor's expense often. Luckily, he was used to it and no longer took offense.  
  
"I'm done packing." Brainstorm patted the ridiculous looking sack he'd strapped around his waist, which didn't look large enough to hold any of the equipment he'd need.  
  
Given that he'd slung his shrink ray over the opposite shoulder, there was Perceptor's answer. Primus, if those things suddenly enlarged while they're on the ship, Perceptor would ban Brainstorm from his berth for a month.  
  
Perceptor lifted a crate and put it in Brainstorm's arms. "Then help us load the transport."  
  
"You know I love it when you get bossy with me," Brainstorm said from behind the crate. "Point me in the right direction, Percy."  
  
He spun Brainstorm around and gave him a mild push in the direction of the door. He watched Brainstorm totter out, only bouncing off one table with his hip before he vanished out the door.  
  
"That's too much information, guys," Wheeljack said in Brainstorm's absence.  
  
Despite himself, Perceptor chuckled. "Having spent decades listening to you wax poetically on the virtues of Ratchet and your love for him, I think you can endure a few minutes of Brainstorm being overly flirtatious."  
  
"True." Wheeljack nudged a little closer, and his field gave Perceptor's a little poke. "But you're happy with him? Really?"  
  
Perceptor titled his head at Wheeljack's unusually serious tone. "Yes," he admitted, after a moment. "Brainstorm challenges me, both in the laboratory and in conversation. He pulls me out of my shell. He..."  
  
Heat flooded Perceptor's face. He coughed to clear his intake and busied his hands. "He's good for me, and I'd like to think I'm good for him."  
  
"You are. And I'm glad you're happy. Both me and Ratch, we were worried about ya for a bit." Wheeljack patted him on the shoulder. "He'll be happy to know you're okay."  
  
"Ratchet worries too much," Perceptor sighed, but it was a fond sigh. Worry was Ratchet's nature.  
  
"Well, I'm not going to argue that." Wheeljack pulled away, crouching to dig into one of his cabinets, as unorganized as everything else he kept. "What do you think about this reproduction business anyway?"  
  
Perceptor hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not interested. I already have a child," he said as the door opened to admit Brainstorm, dusting off his hands. "And there he is now."  
  
Wheeljack laughed.  
  
Brainstorm cocked his head. "Why do I get the feeling I'm the end result of the very rare Perceptor joke?"  
  
"Because you are." Perceptor chuckled and added a few more carefully labeled packages to his crate. "But in all seriousness, I do not anticipate wanting to experience this particular change anytime soon. I don't want that sort of burden at the moment."  
  
Brainstorm nodded. "Oh, we're talking about the carrying process." He made a round shape in front of his belly to emphasize, though Hot Rod's description had not included any sort of outward, physical change. "We're in agreement on that. I'm not ready for a baby either."  
  
"Perhaps in the future." Perceptor eyed Wheeljack, who was dumping a whole container into his packing crate, the bits and bobs clattering noisily inside. "What about you and Ratchet?"  
  
Wheeljack's kibble gave a little fluttering dance. "He's already thinking of names. Methinks the old medic is going through an empty nest since Flare moved out."  
  
"It's hard to believe Ratchet is such a nanny figure." Brainstorm poked around as if checking for anything else he might want to bring. "He's always yelling."  
  
"At you," Perceptor corrected. "Because like Wheeljack, you seem to think scientific safety protocols are a suggestion rather than an important precautionary measure."  
  
Brainstorm planted his hands on his hips. "Now why did you have to go and call me out like that? Honestly, Perce. I'm offended."  
  
Wheeljack rolled his optics and snapped the lid on his crate shut. "Okay, you two, if we're going to get out there before the sun sets, we need to get going. I want some readings asap."  
  
"Now who's the serious one?" Perceptor teased, but he did hastily stack the last of his instruments into his own crate before locking it shut. "You're right. I am eager to see what we can learn, if perhaps we can find this Primal Spark."  
  
"I'm still getting readings from what they left out there." Brainstorm whipped out a datapad and started perusing the contents. He fell in line beside Perceptor as he hefted a crate and Wheeljack did the same. "There are lots of weird energy spikes, and the seisometer is picking up a lot of movement in the core."  
  
"Cybertron's awakening," Wheeljack said.  
  
"That would be my guess. It would explain the movement and the energy expenditure," Perceptor mused aloud, his processor churning on possibilities. "We'll know more when we can take readings for ourselves."  
  
It was a new age of discovery, of both old and new things.  
  
Perceptor couldn't wait.  
  


~

  
  
It was always a challenge to find Glyph.  
  
He was a minibot even smaller than Cliffjumper, and he had a tendency to hide amongst the stacks and crates of salvaged Cybertronian history. To be fair, the hiding wasn't intentional, but the stacks were larger than Glyph, and when he found some new tidbit to explore, he'd get so engrossed in the material he wouldn't pay attention to his surroundings.  
  
Sometimes, Cliffjumper could lure him out with goodies, if he had any with an enticing enough aroma.  
  
He had no goodies today. He hadn't had time. Between the packing and the loading and triple-checking the list Glyph had given him, he'd been busy.  
  
"Glyph?"  
  
Cliffjumper wandered the stacks, passing haphazardly stacked crates and cartons, leaning piles of physical scrolls and ancient datapads, some so thick and unwieldy, they seemed useless. The whole recovery room smelled of dust and disuse and spent artillery, combined with the pungent odor of the cleaning solution Cliffjumper mixed himself, to ensure the artifacts were clean without losing their integrity.  
  
The stacks were loosely organized in clumps relative to the cities or locations where they'd been recovered. Iacon over here. Uraya over there. A much smaller pile from the ruins of Praxus...  
  
"Glyph?"  
  
"Back here! In Nova Cronum!"  
  
He should have known. Nova Cronum was one of Glyph's favorites.  
  
Cliffjumper oriented toward Glyph's voice, and was unsurprised to find the archaelogist sitting on the floor, surrounded by ancient datapads, bits of physical data, and a single laptop, of which he was typing on furiously.  
  
"I found a reference to sparkling in one of these ancient texts," Glyph was saying as Cliffjumper approached, like he was carrying on a conversation Cliffjumper didn't know he'd started. Glyph did this a lot. "I'm even more certain that Nova Cronum will contain the information we need. It was a good guess, since Nova Cronum had been the head of medical research, but still--"  
  
"Glyph," Cliffjumper cut in gently, fighting off a grin. Glyph almost rivaled Bluestreak for chattiness. "The transport's ready to go."  
  
"Already?" Glyph's fingers paused. He glanced up, blinking owlishly. "Goodness, is it really that late? Have I been sitting here that long?" He looked at his computer and tapped a few keys, saving his work. "Help me up, and I'll give you a hand."  
  
Cliffjumper chuckled and pulled Glyph to his feet, careful not to disturb the stacks of datapads.  
"I'm done. Just waiting on you."  
  
"What? Really?" Glyph's face colored as he tucked his computer away. "I'm so sorry. You should have gotten me sooner. I would've helped."  
  
"It's fine." Cliffjumper waved it off, scrubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Tell me more about what you found. You really think the information about this sparking bit is out there?"  
  
Glyph nodded with enthusiasm and started to lead Cliffjumper through the stacks, toward the exit. "Undoubtedly. If Rodimus Prime is correct, and this is a method we have successfully used in the past, then there must be data about it somewhere." He shook a finger in the air. "You can't destroy the truth, Cliffjumper. Remember that. It's always there. Somewhere." He paused and tipped his chin. "The trick is to find it." He winked.  
  
"That's what you're for, to find it," Cliffjumper said.  
  
Glyph laughed and it echoed in the narrow corridors, so light and carefree, it lightened Cliffjumper's spark as well. "You also! Don't lessen your own contributions to this. I wouldn't have recovered so much if not for you."  
  
Cliffjumper's face heated. "I'm just the muscle; you're the brains."  
  
"But they can't work, one without the other." Glyph tapped his head. "That's the secret."  
  
"If you say so," Cliffjumper said, but his insides bubbled with happiness, as much as he tried to hide it behind his scowl. It was impossible to maintain any kind of grump around Glyph. He was the definition of sunshine.  
  
"I do, in fact, say so," Glyph said with a puffed up chassis. "I mean, you have to be more optimistic. Look at how much better things already are! The factions are gradually dissolving, more of our people are coming home, now there's a new Prime in the works, and Optimus Prime himself has entrusted us with a very important task."  
  
Cliffjumper nodded. "It is good to be trusted again."  
  
"Our designations are going to go down in history!" Glyph declared with a wide flourish, jabbering on without flourish. "Mark my words, Cliffie, we're going to glean every tidbit of information we can, and we're going to find out how this old sparking process works, and we're going to be absolutely vital in the efforts to repopulate Cybertron!"  
  
It was hard to stay pessimistic around Glyph. Nothing disappointed him.  
  
"Consider them marked," Cliffjumper said as they left the archives, and Glyph carefully locked the doors behind them. He was over-protective of their finds.  
  
Glyph chuckled and patted Cliffjumper on the elbow. "Thank you for indulging an old rustbucket like me. I really do appreciate your help."  
  
"There's not a spot of rust on you," Cliffjumper pointed out, gesturing to Glyph's immaculate pale blue finish with a silver trim, completely lacking in all kibble. Glyph had no alt-mode.  
  
“And I appreciate you noticing.” Glyph winked and nudged Cliffjumper toward the exit, and the transport idling in wait for them.  
  
Cliffjumper shook his head and slid into the driver’s seat while Glyph hopped up into the passenger side, though he’d yet to learn how to pilot one of these things. Eventually, Cliffjumper would teach him, when they weren’t busy with the ten thousand things Glyph wanted to research anyway.  
  
“Ready to find out about baby Cybertronians?” Cliffjumper asked as he flipped switches and toggled the ship from standby to active.  
  
Glyph pulled out a datapad and started to scribble. “Born ready!”  
  
Cliffjumper chuckled.  
  


~

  
  
Swoop and Skywarp hadn’t stopped chattering since Starscream shared the news.  
  
Thundercracker left them to their excitement while he wandered their shared apartment, cleaning the general mess three mechs tended to accumulate, especially when one of them wasn’t keen on tidying and the second often had messy brothers visit.  
  
Thundercracker complained about the mess, but he truthfully didn’t mind it so much. Cleaning gave him time to think, which Skywarp accused him of doing far too much of, but honestly. Someone in their little trio had to do the thinking. He couldn’t rely on his more reckless partners to do it.  
  
He’d already given them the lecture.  
  
While Cybertronians hadn’t raised young in so long they’d forgotten they were capable of it, they had spent enough time on Earth to have absorbed the culture. Thundercracker was reasonably familiar with the trials and tribulations of caring for a child, from birth until maturation. He’d seen enough movies and read enough books.  
  
Perhaps they should get a pet first.  
  
“He’s definitely going to be able to fly,” Skywarp said.  
  
“Him be smart, too,” Swoop agreed.  
  
“I hope he looks like Thundercracker.” Skywarp made a soft sigh and then added, “You’re adorable, too, Swoop, but don’t you think Thundercracker is the hottest one of all three of us?”  
  
“Me Swoop agree.”  
  
Thundercracker sighed and leaned into view of his two babbling partners. “You do realize how much work it’s going to be to care for an infant, yes?”  
  
They rolled their optics at him in unison. “Duh,” Skywarp said while Swoop added, “Not stupid,” and stuck his glossa out at Thundercracker.  
  
He wished Starscream hadn’t swung by to share the news, and had waited until they’d made the more public announcement. Thundercracker could have used more information with which to tame the eager impulses of his more reckless thirds.  
  
It wasn’t that Thundercracker wasn’t intrigued by the idea of raising their own children, because he was. He simply wanted his partners to realize what they were signing up for, and how much responsibility it would entail. He didn’t want their excitement to overwhelm their reason.  
  
He didn’t want them all to fly blind, as they were wont to do.  
  
“Do you not want us to do this?” Skywarp asked after a moment, and it took until then for Thundercracker to realize they weren’t excitedly chattering anymore, but watching him from the couch.  
  
Thundercracker dropped the dirtied polishing cloths he’d collected into the laundry bin and joined them in the main room, choosing to sit on the table in front of them, rather than join them on the couch.  
  
“I can’t think of a single thing I’d enjoy more than raising a sparkling with you,” Thundercracker said, the unfamiliar term feeling odd on his lips and shaping weirdly across his glossa. He supposed he would get used to it.  
  
“Thundercracker scared?” Swoop asked.  
  
“Cautious,” Thundercracker corrected, and offered them both a crooked smile. “It’s my nature. I have to be the cautious one, because if not for you two, we’d all be flying into madness every week.”  
  
“And twice on Tuesdays,” Skywarp murmured with a snort and a grin. It was a familiar mantra for the three of them. “Is that your only objection?”  
  
Thundercracker’s wings twitched before he could still them, and Swoop was too perceptive not to notice.  
  
“What else?” Swoop asked.  
  
Thundercracker dragged a hand down his face. He braced his elbows on his knees, contemplating how best to word this. “I’m willing to help raise a sparkling, but I don’t want to-- I’m not interested in-- I don’t think I can--”  
  
He broke off three times before he lapsed into silence. It felt like a failure, to admit the things he couldn’t do, and a betrayal as well. He should be willing to put in the same amount of effort as his partners. He was damn lucky they accepted him the way he was, for the things he didn’t ask of them, but still. Times like these…  
  
“It okay,” Swoop said, and he folded his hand over Thundercracker’s -- his much larger hand -- and tugged it until Thundercracker had no choice but to give it up. “Me get it.”  
  
“I’m glad you do. Because I don’t.” Skywarp huffed, but it sounded fond rather than angrily annoyed. “He’s terrible at explaining himself. Always has been. Do you even know how long it took me to figure out he was turning me down because he thought he was broken? Che.”  
  
“Thundercracker does not want to carry,” Swoop said, but he said it slowly, carefully, picking through the words in his ever growing dictionary. Sometimes, he didn’t bother to use what most mechs would call proper speech.  
  
But when he didn’t want to be mistaken, when he wanted to make a point, he slowed himself down, he chose his words with care. He bared himself to the few he trusted.  
  
Thundercracker’s spark warmed at the implication.  
  
Especially since Swoop was right.  
  
“Really? Is that all?” Skywarp threw himself out of the couch and against Thundercracker’s side, tossing his arms over Thundercracker, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “You’re so silly, TC. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m happy to step in and take one for the team.”  
  
“Me Swoop carry, too,” Swoop said and rose from the couch, too, wriggling in against Thundercracker’s side.  
  
The table gave an alarming, ominous groan beneath them.  
  
“See? It’s just that simple!” Skywarp said, peppering the side of Thundercracker’s face in kisses because he couldn’t resist an opportunity when it was presented to him.  
  
Thundercracker groaned and tried to avoid the energetic affection but it was to no avail. Especially when Swoop started in on the other side, laughing in tandem with Skywarp, leaving him trapped between their love.  
  
The destruction of the table was honestly the icing on the oilcake.  
  


***


	6. Chapter 6

Morning came far too soon.  
  
Hot Rod onlined with echoes of dreams he couldn’t remember reverberating through his mind. He dragged himself out of the berth, all of the aches and pains and twinges gone. He still felt a stranger in his own frame, but he didn’t stumble or bump into much.  
  
The apartment was unfamiliar to him. It gave him a bit of a startle, to walk out of the berth room and not recognize where he was. It felt like a place that fit him even less than the new adjustments to his frame.  
  
There were no messages from Jazz.  
  
Hot Rod tried not to be disappointed. This was pretty usual, wasn’t it? They were friends, friends with benefits, but nothing more. Hot Rod knew better than to expect or even hope for that to change.  
  
Still.  
  
He stood in his new kitchen and stared dumbly at a table he didn’t recognize, a fully stocked cabinet he hadn’t chosen for himself, and pictures on the walls he thought were both hideous and unnecessary. The colors were sterile and functional. The place felt unlived in, like it wasn’t meant to be a home.  
  
Hot Rod hated it.  
  
He dialed Jazz as he moved to the one thing he didn’t hate about the apartment -- the balcony. All of Polyhex stretched out below him, new and old clashing, mechs milling in the early morning streets, Seekers and the like flittering through the skies above.  
  
Hot Rod braced his hands on the balcony rail and vented, slow and deep. He offlined his optics, tried to find a center for calm, but calm had never been his strong suit.  
  
A chime rang through the apartment. It took Hot Rod far too long to realize that meant someone was outside his door.  
  
He turned away from the view and answered the door, quelling the ridiculous optimism that it was Jazz come to wish him good morning or finally answer Hot Rod's messages.  
  
Optimus Prime stood on the other side of it, smiling at him from an equal height. "Good morning, Rodimus. Did you rest well?"  
  
He flinched at the unwelcome name, but didn't correct Optimus. He supposed he'd have to get used to the title eventually. It wasn't like he could refuse it.  
  
"I guess," Hot Rod said, and coughed a little, stepping aside. "Come on in."  
  
"Thank you." Optimus gave him a warm smile and entered, his gaze assessing the interior of Hot Rod's apartment. "I thought we might start your lessons today."  
  
"Lessons?" Hot Rod echoed, confused, until his memory core offered up the conversation he'd had with Optimus yesterday, about learning how to be a Prime. He groaned. "So soon?"  
  
"I see no reason to delay. You've been cleared of your other duties."  
  
Yeah. He'd noticed that. He hadn't much liked it either.  
  
Hot Rod sighed, his shoulders sinking. "I guess I don't have much of a choice anymore, do I?"  
  
Optimus cocked his head, and some of the rigidity in his stance softened. His field touched Hot Rod's and there was a gentle warmth in it, like consolation.  
  
"I am sorry, Hot Rod," he murmured, and the use of his proper designation made Hot Rod relax a little. "Being chosen is as much a terrible responsibility as it is a wonderful one. The truth is, yes, you can't run from it. But there are still choices you can make."  
  
Hot Rod twisted his jaw. He turned in a slow circle. "I didn't get to choose my apartment. I don't get to pick the name I want. I can't spend my time the way I want to. I can't have--" He cut himself off, swallowed down the bitterness crawling up the back of his intake.  
  
He shook his head and fell silent instead. He sounded like a child throwing a tantrum. It was unfair, but to rail against Primus was pointless.  
  
Besides, Optimus was wrong.  
  
If he wanted, Hot Rod could run away. He could steal a ship and flee Cybertron. He could simply refuse to relay Primus' messages. Maybe Primus would give up on him, take the Matrix back, give it to someone else.  
  
Or maybe Primus was just enough of a dick to keep the Matrix and his secrets, if Hot Rod wouldn't dole them out. Was he willing to take that risk? Could he doom the surviving Cybertronians to Primus' disregard?  
  
He was already responsible for the death of thousands. He couldn't bear the weight of that guilt, too.  
  
"I didn't plan for this," Hot Rod said, finally. "This isn't what I wanted."  
  
Optimus rested a hand on his shoulder, Hot Rod barely feeling the weight of it, now that his joints and gears and struts and everything had been strengthened and enhanced.  
  
"I know. And I understand. If I could take this burden from you, I would." Optimus' gaze was gentle. Understanding.  
  
His words.  
  
They, however, were a lie. Hot Rod wasn't sure how he knew. Something from the Matrix maybe, some new intuition he didn't have before. A part of Optimus was being truthful, yes. If he could, he would take the burden of the Matrix and save Hot Rod from it. A part of Optimus missed the wisdom and guidance it offered.  
  
But there was relief in there, too. Optimus had been Prime for a long, long time, through a long, long war. Hot Rod couldn't begrudge him his relief.  
  
"It's all right," Hot Rod sighed, even though it wasn't. He slid out from under Optimus' comfort and flicked his armor, trying to settle into a frame he still wasn't used to. "I guess I'm lucky I got you to guide me though. This won't be a complete disaster."  
  
Just most of one.  
  
Optimus chuckled. "I don't think it'll be one regardless. You're more worthy of this than you realize." He paused and looked around. "Are you ready to go or...?"  
  
Hot Rod gestured helplessly. "Nothing here is mine yet. So I guess I am." His tanks grumbled at him, unappreciative. Apparently his usual intake of energon wasn't going to be enough. "Though maybe a snack..."  
  
"My cabinet is more than stocked. Soundwave ensures that." Optimus stepped out, waiting for Hot Rod to follow, before he continued. "And if you would like, I will call you Hot Rod until you are ready for 'Rodimus.'"  
  
Hot Rod's optics widened. "You'd do that?"  
  
"If it's what you prefer, of course."  
  
Hot Rod fell in step beside Optimus, contemplating. "Um. Yeah, I'd rather be called Hot Rod for now."  
  
"Consider it done. I'll inform the others as well."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Optimus tipped his head in acknowledgment. "It's the very least I can do." He folded his arms behind his back as they stepped into the lift, selecting the level which would take them to the office bank. "I thought we'd start with a bit of shadowing. You could follow me around for a week, see what I do on average, and then we'll start getting into particulars."  
  
"Sounds fun."  
  
It didn't, in the least bit, sound fun.  
  
Hot Rod swallowed a sigh. "By the way, you haven't seen Jazz, have you?"  
  
Optimus blinked, and the expression of sympathy on his face was one Hot Rod wished was never pointed at him in the first place. "He took the space bridge to Earth first thing this morning. Didn't he tell you?"  
  
Hot Rod forced out a laugh and scrubbed the back of his neck. "Oh, I completely forgot about that. Now that you mention it, I do remember him saying something about inspections." He playfully knocked himself in the head. "It's been a scramble up here since I got the Matrix so no wonder I forgot."  
  
"It's all right. Did you need to speak with him?" Optimus asked.  
  
Hot Rod didn't want to lie, but he wanted even less to speak the truth. Fortunately, a handy distraction came in the form of Laserbeak who appeared out of nowhere to land on Optimus' shoulder as soon as they stepped out of the lift.  
  
Optimus rumbled a smile at her and scratched the top of her head. She nudged into his hand and gave Hot Rod a curious look.  
  
"You're gonna have to get used to the sight of me," Hot Rod said. "Apparently, I'm Optimus' shadow for the week."  
  
She chirped at him, and Optimus chuckled. “Yes, he does have a lot to learn. I hope I prove to be an adequate teacher.”  
  
“I’m already sure you are. It’s probably me who’ll suck as a student,” Hot Rod said.  
  
He pushed aside thoughts of Jazz. He had to. There was work to be done, tasks to learn, a whole array of responsibilities which would soon be on his shoulders. He couldn’t fault Jazz for not wanting to be a part of that.  
  
He just wished Jazz had said so rather than run away.  
  
Hot Rod swallowed a sigh.  
  
Oh, well.  
  


~

  
  
“Do you think it worked that time?” Starscream asked as he sprawled atop Grimlock’s massive form, the half-firm length of his mate’s spike still nestled within him, their frames ticking and cooling in the aftermath.  
  
Little trembles of pleasure still zipped through his sensor net. Starscream knew it wouldn’t take much to get him worked up again, especially with Grimlock idly tracing the leading edges of his wings.  
  
“We could always keep trying,” Grimlock rumbled, his voice thick with amusement.  
  
Starscream chuckled. “Ah, yes. Such a burden that will be.” He wiggled a little, getting more comfortable, his thighs splayed wide over Grimlock’s broader frame, but Grimlock radiating heat beneath him, too.  
  
He glanced at his chronometer, trying to gauge how much longer they’d be undisturbed before some matter of state called to their attention. A leader rarely had free time for himself, and they were no exception, even if they did have competent secondaries.  
  
Hmm. Perhaps enough time for another try?  
  
Grimlock must have calculated the same thing, for one sweeping hand abandoned Starscream’s wings to stroke down and cup his aft. Starscream purred and arched into the touch, even as Grimlock’s fingers dipped between his thighs, brushing where they were still joined. His spike twitched within Starscream, starting to thicken once more.  
  
Primus bless a Dinobot’s stamina.  
  
Starscream breathed a sigh and rocked back onto Grimlock’s fingers. “Ten minutes,” he said as he started to knead his fingers against Grimlock’s armor, talons slipping into seams to scratch over the cables beneath. “And we need time to clean up.”  
  
Grimlock laughed, deep rumbles which vibrated into Starscream’s frame. “Then less practice and more pleasure this time,” he suggested.  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Starscream purred and pushed himself up, shifting back to fully seat Grimlock inside him, a ripple of heat traveling up his spinal strut.  
  
He braced his hands on Grimlock’s abdomen, circling his hips a little, grinning as the light in Grimlock’s visor shifted from a neutral amber, to a darker, deeper hue, his field flooding with desire.  
  
The berth shook.  
  
Starscream cycled his optics. He stilled. He cocked his head. “Did you feel that?”  
  
Grimlock rumbled a laugh, scrubbing his hands up Starscream’s thighs. “Is that a trick question?”  
  
“I wish it was.” Starscream frowned, and the berth shook again, stronger this time, enough for some of the decorative items on the shelves to rattle noisily.  
  
It lasted much longer, like one of the landquakes they’d endured a few times while on Earth. There was no sound to accompany the motion, but Starscream’s sensors went haywire.  
  
“I felt that,” Grimlock said, once it had ended. He sat up, shifting Starscream into his lap, his field shifting from aroused to concerned in a split-second. “What was it?”  
  
 _Boom!_  
  
More trembling, more violent than the first, nearly unseated Starscream. He clutched Grimlock, digging in with talons and knees, as the berth tossed and a few things toppled from the shelves, breaking where they hit the floor.  
  
The quaking lasted longer this time, was more violent. Starscream counted the seconds, until thirty of them later, the quaking petered off to nothing.  
  
He waited, with caught ventilations, for one, two, three minutes. Stillness and silence before he allowed himself to ex-vent, his forehead to Grimlock’s shoulder, and Grimlock’s arms coming around him.  
  
“Well, my scientist, what was that?” Grimlock asked, though he seemed in no hurry to leap from the berth to investigate.  
  
“I wish I knew.” Starscream cycled a ventilation and extricated himself from Grimlock’s arms, the afterglow and build up gone in the wake of the odd occurrence. Cybertron was not known for geologic activity. Perhaps it was an after-effect of whatever had made Hot Rod into Rodimus Prime, which had potentially activated the Primal Spark at the core.  
  
Or perhaps it was something else.  
  
“Damage?” Grimlock asked as Starscream moved to the small console they kept in their berthroom, powering it on with a few quick key presses.  
  
He logged into the system, into the Decepticon intranet, and skimmed the reports pouring in. There were a lot of startled and worried mechs out there, and not just in Iacon. Apparently, the quake had been felt in Polyhex and Nova Cronum as well.  
  
“Nothing serious,” Starscream said as he read through the reports as quickly as they hit the system.  
  
Another message popped up marked ‘urgent’ just as Grimlock said, “Shockwave’s trying to contact me,” and lo and behold, it was from Shockwave.  
  
“Answer it,” Starscream said as he clicked on the message and skimmed through it, overlooking all of Shockwave’s usual overly lengthy introductions to get to the spark of the matter.  
  
At the time of the quake, Shockwave's instruments measured energy spikes all over Cybertron. He was not able to pinpoint their source, save that they shared the same origin as whatever caused the shaking. He was uncertain whether the tremors were due to Cybertron's internal gears starting to move again, or if there was something else going on. He'd need time to research and it would be beneficial if he had free range outside his lab to do so.  
  
Starscream snorted. "That's not going to happen," he muttered.  
  
Shockwave also reported that the Autobots had a scientific team out near where Hot Rod had vanished and been found. They'd recovered a lot of data, some of which they'd sent back to him, and he'd send an updated report once he knew more.  
  
In short, he didn't know anything.  
  
Starscream signed off on Shockwave's message as Grimlock rested a hand on his shoulder, visor dimmed as he communicated internally with Shockwave.  
  
Starscream fielded a few worried comms -- including from his own trinemates -- and waited.  
  
"He knows nothing," Grimlock rumbled after a moment, visor flickering as his attention shifted back to Starscream. "And as far as I can tell, there's been no structural damage anywhere in Iacon."  
  
"It wasn't a fluke," Starscream said. "Something's happened. Something none of us understand." How much really do they know about their planet anyway?  
  
"I would lay creds on Prime knowing. Either of them."  
  
Starscream hummed his agreement as another message popped up in the queue, also marked 'urgent'. He clicked on it and as he read, rapped his fingers on the desktop. "Excavation site three has damaged equipment," he said. "I'm guessing the tremors were worse there."  
  
"Three." Grimlock contemplated. "That one is near where they found Hot Rod, yes?"  
  
Starscream nodded. "It's the one we think is the control bridge.”  
  
"I think it's time we had a talk with Prime then. I doubt this is all a coincidence." Grimlock leaned down for a nuzzle. "It seems we have to cut our practice short."  
  
Starscream curled his hand around Grimlock's hand, pulling him down to press their foreheads together. "There's always tonight."  
  
"I'll hold you to that."  
  


~

  
  
The moment the tremors ended, and Soundwave was certain there weren't immediately going to be more, he dialed down his comm receptors, because the comms exploded planet-wide, with mechs immediately contacting their superiors, their friends, all of them chattering about the quakes and what it could be mean and the worry about damage.  
  
Soundwave was a nanosecond too slow, however, and the immediate rush of noise gave him an instant headache before he could dial it down.  
  
His first concern, however, was Optimus. While what few reports he let slip through seemed to indicate there was very little damage or injury, if any, Soundwave would not be able to rest until he was sure. He was certain Optmus would need his assistance as well, since something like this could cause a lot of trouble for the person in charge.  
  
 _Optimus is fine._  
  
Laserbeak's transmission sent a wave of calm through Soundwave's frame. He would never cease to be grateful that she'd grown so fond of Optimus, enough to feel comfortable on his shoulder even when Soundwave was nowhere to be seen. Nowadays, she chose to stay with Optimus more often than not, and Soundwave wasn't the least bit offended.  
  
He needed the second pair of optics to look after Optimus. His partner seemed terminally incapable of looking after himself.  
  
Soundwave didn’t need to ping for entry; Optimus’ office door opened to him automatically. Inside, Optimus sat behind his desk, focused on his console, typing madly, Laserbeak crouched on his shoulder. Hot Rod sat across from him with a datapad, idly tapping a stylus against his bottom lip.  
  
Both looked up as Soundwave entered.  
  
“I don’t think there’s anyone on Cybertron who did not feel that quake,” Optimus said with a sigh of exasperation. “I must beg of your assistance, Soundwave. I’m being bombarded with messages, comms, demands…”  
  
“Optimus need never beg,” Soundwave said as he stepped fully inside and the door closed behind him. He glanced at Hot Rod, who gave him a truncated wave, unease thick in his field.  
  
It was unsurprising. It had been ten years, but Soundwave’s reputation still preceded him. He couldn’t blame the new Prime for being uneasy in his presence.  
  
“What must be done?” Soundwave asked.  
  
“Everything,” Optimus said with a sigh. “People are demanding answers I don’t have. Grimlock and Starscream have requested a meeting. The scientists are pouring in with their data, and while I can understand some of it, most goes over my head.”  
  
Soundwave nodded and picked up a datapad, logging on and attaching it to Optimus’ console so that he might join Optimus’ work. He tackled the request from Grimlock and Starscream first. They seemed to think the quakes were related to Hot Rod and the newly acquired Matrix.  
  
It was a plausible cause.  
  
“The Matrix?” Soundwave asked with a pointed look at Hot Rod.  
  
The younger mech squirmed. His fingers fluttered over his spark seam. “It’s, um, twitching, I guess? I don’t know if that’s normal or not. But it does feel like it’s restless or something.”  
  
Soundwave glanced at Optimus who had looked away from his console to regard Hot Rod thoughtfully. He tilted his head, optics dimmed.  
  
“I do not know that it was ever physically responsive when I carried it,” Optimus said, and perhaps Hot Rod would have missed the ache of longing, of disappointment, in Optimus’ voice, but not Soundwave. “It occasionally whispered to me, but it tended to speak only during recharge.”  
  
“Did you get visits from Primus in your dreams, too?”  
  
Optimus’ optics spiraled wide before he mastered the wild flail of his emotions. “Only the once,” he murmured, and gave Hot Rod a keen look. “Have you spoken with him more than once?”  
  
Hot Rod fidgeted in the chair and found his datapad fascinating all of the sudden. “I guess, you know, since the Matrix is new to me, and Primus is forgiving us and stuff, he’s a lot more talkative now.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Optimus demurred, but he exchanged a glance with Soundwave.  
  
They’d have a discussion later.  
  
“Is it a bad thing?” Hot Rod asked, and anxiety leaked into his voice, into the clamp of his armor, the clicking skips of his ventilation. One hand fluttered to his chassis, to the seam of his chestplate, now nearly invisible since accepting the Matrix had changed him.  
  
“Of course not,” Optimus said, and while it wasn’t a lie, Soundwave detected it wasn’t quite the truth either.  
  
The truth being that they simply didn’t know. Each Prime carried the Matrix differently, Soundwave was aware of that much. Already, Hot Rod’s experience vastly differed from Optimus’, who said the Matrix always felt like a leaden weight in his chassis, a burden he must endure.  
  
“It benefits us all that Primus speaks to you,” Optimus said before he tipped his head toward Hot Rod’s datapad. “Do you think you can manage some correspondence if I send it your way?”  
  
Hot Rod groaned and sank a little in his chair, fully resembling the young soldier he was, as opposed to the frame of a Prime he now wore. “If I have to,” he grumbled.  
  
Optimus chuckled. “It’ll be great practice. You can send it to Soundwave when you’re done and he’ll double-check it.”  
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave agreed  
  
Hot Rod sighed a belabored sigh and pushed himself upright. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Amusement danced in Optimus’ optics, however brief, before he focused on his own work again, tension and worry surrounding him like a heavy cloak.  
  
“ _We’ll talk later_ ,” Soundwave promised across the comm. He could feel the lingering anxiety in Optimus’ field, like heavy stones dragging him down.  
  
Optimus looked up, warmth shining in his optics. “ _Thank you_.”  
  
Soundwave nodded and focused on his own work, scanning through the multiple reports of the scientists they had stretched out over Cybertron -- from those overseeing the unearthing of the starbridges, to those exploring where Hot Rod had fallen and been recovered, to those sifting through the wreckage of various cities, looking for any sort of beneficial data.  
  
The war was ten years gone, but the shadows of it still haunted them.  
  
Soundwave could only hope this quake did not foretell the arrival of something terrible.  
  


~

  
  
Earth felt a lot like coming home.  
  
Cybertron was still home. It always would be. But they’d spent so long on Earth, integrating themselves, learning about their new allies, fighting the good fight, Jazz had kind of adopted Earth as his second home.  
  
The Ark and the Pacific coast of the United States were his old stomping grounds, but Jazz had grown fond of their new base of operations, centered out of Griffin Rock, Maine where a combination of human ingenuity and quick-thicking from one of their rescue teams kept a whole island of humans safe from the Decepticon attack.  
  
Jazz stepped out of the spacebridge into bright sunlight, warm on his armor, a salty breeze rushing over him, and the sounds of industry in the distance. Hound waited for him, smiling, and he drew Jazz into a big hug before Jazz could say a word,  
  
He looked radiantly happy, Jazz realized as Hound clapped him on the back, his field brimming with contentment. Mated life suited him apparently.  
  
“What an unexpected surprise,” Hound said as he pulled back, his hands on Jazz’s shoulders. “You look… hmm. Something’s wrong.”  
  
Jazz swallowed a sigh. “I hate how perceptive you are, know that?”  
  
“You’ve said it before.” Hound’s grin was crooked, but concerned. He tilted his head. “I’d ask if you want to talk about it, but I’m guessing you came here to get away from it.”  
  
Damn. Mated pairs really do start acting alike, didn’t they? Hound always was perceptive, but Ravage even more so, and together, they were a force to be reckoned with.  
  
“I have a real point to being here,” Jazz said, reaching for playful, but it wilted under Hound’s perception. They knew each other too well. “Seriously though. I do want a tour of the powerplants, and a meeting with Griffin Rock’s leader, just to make sure everything is copacetic.”  
  
A job anyone of much lower rank than him could have done. So what if Jazz had skimmed through the duty reports and found a task in the queue that required the assigned mech to leave Cybertron? So what if he’d assigned himself to it as an excuse. Job needed doing, right? So he’d do it.  
  
“Bee around?” Jazz asked.  
  
Hound turned, and Jazz moved in step with him, descending from the space bridge platform which had been erected on the mainland, a short ferry ride across the bay to Griffin Rock. The island, while large enough for the town, wasn’t quite stable enough to house the massive space bridge.  
  
“He and Rumble are in China at last contact,” Hound said. “They’re at the survival center in Faxian with Dr. Szeto. There’ve been hints of more human survivors, possibly hiding in private bunkers, all around Asia.”  
  
“Well, that’s good news,” Jazz said. Earth’s human population had been summarily decimated by the Decepticons, though more international countries had fared better than the United States.  
  
Hound hummed his agreement. “We’ve been sending human scouting parties with Cybertronian backup at a safe distance. They don’t want to talk if they see mechs.”  
  
“Can’t blame ‘em.”  
  
“Not at all.” Hound rolled his shoulders. “We get the daily sheet, but the last one felt a little lacking.”  
  
Jazz winced. It touched too close to the reason he’d left Cybertron in the first place. “There’ve been some big changes.” He tilted his head up, toward the heat of the sun, let it soak into his armor. Cybertron didn’t have a sun, this ambient heat. He missed it.  
  
“Good changes?”  
  
“Depends on who you ask.” Jazz altered course, stepping off the path toward the docks, and toward a rocky bluff overlooking the ocean. He wasn’t ready to hit Griffin Rock yet.  
  
Hound followed him, and there was something about the steady presence of his field which seeped away a few of the weights on Jazz’s shoulder. He knew he could talk to Hound without judgment. He wasn’t the sort to offer advice in the way Smokescreen did. Hound listened.  
  
“Good news is, they think Cybertron’s waking back up, and the Primal Spark has reignited,” Jazz said, though what exactly that meant, he wasn’t sure. He drew in a deep breath, pulling damp sea air into his frame.  
  
Ratchet would bitch at him about the damage he was doing to his filters, but it was worth it.  
  
“What makes them think that?” Hound asked.  
  
Jazz sighed and lowered himself into a crouch, balancing his elbows on his knees, watching the sun dance across the ocean’s waves. “Hot Rod is Rodimus Prime now. He fell into an abyss and when we found him, he had a Matrix and Primus had given him a vision.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Shock radiated from Hound’s field before he reeled it in. “If it weren’t for the fact you showed up lookin’ like someone had stolen your favorite vibroblade, I’d call pitslag on you for that,” Hound said. He crouched next to Jazz and gave him a long look. “So. Hot Rod is the new Prime.”  
  
“Prime in training,” Jazz corrected, and though he watched Hound peripherally, he kept his attention focused on the endless expanse of Earth’s Atlantic Ocean. “Optimus is going to try and teach him everything, so he’s not stumbling blind. It’s made a mess of the balance of politics.”  
  
“I’m sure.” Hound made a thoughtful noise. “How’s Hot Rod handling it?”  
  
Jazz’s spark ached. “It’s not really something you can refuse, but Roddy’s trying sure enough. He’s much more suited for it then he knows.”  
  
A fond smile tugged on Jazz’s lips before he could stop it. The potential was there, Jazz knew it. He’d been through more than one Prime, and while Optimus had his loyalty, he was confident Rodimus Prime would prove to be more than worthy of it as well.  
  
“I can see that.”  
  
“There’s one other thing, too. Pretty big.” Jazz gave Hound an askance look. “Apparently, Primus has a lot to say to poor Roddy, and one of those messages was about a way to start repopulating Cybertron. I’ll give ya a hint, the humans are about to be inundated with parenting questions.”  
  
Hound cycled his optics. “What?”  
  
Jazz laughed out loud. For the first time since the announcement appeared, he managed a genuine chuckle, unknotting some of the tension that had been around his spark from the moment he found out Hot Rod now had a Matrix.  
  
“We’ve always had it apparently. We just didn’t know it. Roddy’s got the code to unlock it for us, and then we can start carrying bitlets and spawning them and raising them, kind of like the humans but not exactly.” Jazz rolled his shoulders and his neck, unkinking his cables. “We’re working on an instructional guide for when we figure it out, but for now, everyone’s still reeling from the fact we’re not going to go extinct.”  
  
“That’s… incredible.” Genuine joy infected Hound’s tone. It was hard not to be swept up into it. “I know it’s a complicated thing, but… wow. Primus has forgiven us.”  
  
Jazz tried to smile. He managed a grimace. “You can look at it that way, I guess. Though as usual, he’s taking his strip of armor with it.”  
  
“You mean Hot Rod.”  
  
Jazz stood, easing the strain on his calf cables, stretching his arms over his head, listening to his frame creak and grind and groan. He was old, a lot older than mechs thought he was. Old enough that he sometimes saw Optimus for the youthful spark he was.  
  
Old enough to know better when it came to crawling into Hot Rod’s berth, but unwilling to leave the comfort and easy companionship it offered. It was his own fault, for wanting it to be more. For letting himself soak up that easiness, until it was something he wanted to keep.  
  
Jazz had a bad habit of wanting to keep things he shouldn’t.  
  
“I’m not going to ask the dumb question of whether or not you’ve talked to him,” Hound said as he looked up at Jazz, his voice gentle but the weight of his gaze like a soft chastisement. “But you are making the choice for him.”  
  
“There’s no choice. We are what we are, and nothing in there was a promise.” Jazz’s spark ached, hard enough that he thought it might have been physical, that maybe there was something wrong with him. “Prime’s don’t need assassins by their sides. They need smart mechs, skilled mechs, intelligent mechs…”  
  
“Of which you are. And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Soundwave an assassin?” Hound asked, with one arched orbital ridge and a tone which suggested common sense.  
  
“Sounders doesn’t get his hands dirty. Not like me.” Jazz looked at his own hands, which were immaculately clean, per the usual, but they’ve been stained with all kinds of fluids in the past. His spark and processor carried numerous secrets. He wasn’t someone people trusted. He couldn’t afford to be.  
  
He was dangerous, and he was flexible, and he was changeable. He made the hard decisions when no one else could. He did the terrible deeds which needed to be done. He protected the things which were his with violence and stealth, if need be.  
  
Jazz had never regretted his actions or his choices. He’d always done what was necessary. But it did mean there were certain things he couldn’t have.  
  
Hot Rod’s radiant smile was one of them.  
  
“You’re not giving him enough credit,” Hound said with a sigh. “You never gave Optimus enough credit either.”  
  
Ouch. Low blow. Jazz flinched and said as much.  
  
Hound’s gaze softened. He stood and squeezed Jazz’s shoulder, offering warmth and comfort with his field. “Stay here for a bit. Get your thoughts together. Then go back and tell Hot Rod how you feel.”  
  
“You make it sound easy.”  
  
“I know it’s not.” Hound gave him a smile, and his hand slipped from Jazz’s shoulder. “But you’re one of the bravest mechs I know. You can do it.” He tilted his head back toward the docks and started down the path. “Come on. If we wait any longer, the captain will leave without us.”  
  
Jazz stood there for a second later, pondering Hound’s words as he stared at the blue sea, soaking in the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore.  
  
“He’s right, you know.”  
  
Jazz didn’t startle. If anyone asked, he did not startle with surprise, because he absolutely knew Ravage was there, and the only reason he might have jumped a little, was for Ravage’s benefit.  
  
“I should have known you were listening,” Jazz said.  
  
“There is nothing Hound does that is a secret to me,” Ravage said with a coy tilt of her head. “Though he tried, for your sake. I have less scruples than him, however.”  
  
Jazz would scowl, if he thought he would do any good. “Have you come to offer me your advice, too?”  
  
“Would it do any good?”  
  
Jazz didn’t answer.  
  
“Didn’t think so.” Ravage padded up beside him, easily matching his step, though her gaze was on Hound a few paces ahead of them, whistling a happy tune to himself, his field as radiantly happy as it had been since the war ended. “But watching you mope is getting tiresome. Talk to the idiot primeling. Stop being a coward.”  
  
“You don’t sugar-coat anything, do you?” Jazz asked.  
  
Ravage’s tail twitched at him. “No.” She winked and slunk ahead to catch up with Hound, who cast a smile down at her.  
  
They were obscenely adorable, and lucky, and Jazz was happy for them.  
  
He sighed and jogged to catch up. He might as well get some work done while he was here.  
  


~

  
  
“Why is this one buried so deeply?” Bonecrusher grumbled as he lifted a huge block of stone and metal out of the hole and heaved it into the nearby pile of excavated materials.  
  
Long Haul leaned over the edge and grabbed an even bigger block from Mixmaster a level below. “Because it’s the most important one.”  
  
“It’s the control panel,” Mixmaster added, his voice echoing oddly in the tunnel they’d carved out, straight from the surface into the bowels of Cybertron.  
  
They were just outside of Iacon, a few miles south of the Undergrid, where the spires of Iacon could faintly be seen in the distance. Beyond them, the three Constructicons could barely make out the twinkle of Nova Cronum and the shimmer of Polyhex, like a heat mirage.  
  
Convenient, the location of this control panel for the starbridge.  
  
“Scrapper and Scav finished up theirs yesterday,” Bonecrusher said as he went down for another block. They were getting closer to the controls; he could feel it.  
  
“You guys aren’t at all worried about the quakes?” Bulkhead asked as he wandered by, ostensibly supervising them, but assisting more often than not.  
  
All of the Constructicons had earned a probation of sorts, thanks to the work that had been done on their coding. They had Shockwave to thank, in part, not that any Constructicon felt they owed Shockwave their gratitude. He hadn’t done it to be kind. He’d done it because of the challenge it represented.  
  
It hadn’t erased what they’d done as Decepticons, but it had been enough to earn them a chance.  
  
Long Haul snorted. “We’re not amateurs, we know exactly what we’re doing.”  
  
“No comments from the destruction crew. You worry about your job, we’ll worry about ours,” Mixmaster added. “Crusher, get down here. I got another layer of duryllium here.”  
  
“Duryllium?” Bulkhead echoed, and he crouched on the edge of the site, looking down into the tunnel. “Who buries something under duryllium?”  
  
“Someone very paranoid,” Long Haul muttered as Bonecrusher clambered past him, slamming his fists together with eager anticipation.  
  
“Someone who wanted to protect something important,” Mixmaster said. “Like this starbridge. We’re planning on using it for something that could save us, but it could be used as a weapon, too.”  
  
Bulkhead frowned. “Never thought about it that way.”  
  
“We spent millennia helping Megatron build weapons,” Long Haul said, grunting as he accepted a piece Mixmaster handed up to him, throwing it into the ever-growing pile of debris. “We know what they look like.”  
  
 _Slam. Slam. Slam!_  
  
Bonecrusher’s curses and the sound of his fists impacting the duryllium floated up from the hole. Any one of the Constructicons would’ve been worried, if Bonecrusher wasn’t having obvious fun. Destruction was in his nature, and Cybertron as of late had been a playground for him. Demolition was needed daily.  
  
Scrapper, too, was in his element. Rebuilding and redesigning was in as much demand as demolition. The Constructions had a to-do list that was miles long, and they grinned every time they saw it.  
  
Nice to fulfill their actual function again, rather than have it twisted for Megatron’s pursuits.  
  
Further, it was nice to have their own minds.  
  
They could mourn Omega Supreme now. As much as it hurt. That guilt they would always carry.  
  
“Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Mixmaster asked, shouting to be heard over the noise of Bonecrusher’s eager destruction.  
  
“Wonder what?” Bulkhead asked as he started to climb down into the hole, choosing to participate rather than keep observing. He belonged to construction as much as they did.  
  
“What else is buried beneath us,” Long Haul grunted, following Mixmaster’s train of thought. He leaned on his pick-axe, considering. “If we didn’t know these were here, what else is buried deep inside Cybertron that we don’t know about?”  
  
Bulkhead picked up a sledgehammer, measuring the heft of it before tossing it aside to use his in-built wrecking ball instead. “That’s a good question,” he said. “What indeed?”  
  


****


	7. Chapter 7

Ratchet was the last to arrive, which was both intentional and by accident. He meant to be on time, but was waylaid by concerned Autobots on the way to the meeting, and he hadn’t wanted to attend the meeting much in the first place, save that he had a duty, and Ratchet wasn’t one to shirk his duties.  
  
Still.  
  
He was the last to arrive, huffing through the doorway nearly ten minutes after the meeting was supposed to begin, and while he would have liked to sneak in and take a quiet seat somewhere no one would notice him, there weren’t enough mechs for him to pull off the subterfuge.  
  
Glyph and First Aid both looked up as he entered, the former with a friendly smile, the latter with a disapproving frown.  
  
"Don't say a word," Ratchet warned before either could speak. He dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh, and it creaked and groaned beneath him. "Let's just get this started."  
  
"Your enthusiasm is appreciated," First Aid said in a dry tone full of censure, and damn, he sure was spry lately. Ratchet was glad to see him bouncing back, though he never lost the shadow of grief around him.  
  
Ambulon's presence had benefited First Aid greatly.  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. "Why do I need to be enthusiastic?"  
  
Glyph coughed politely into his hand. "We, unfortunately, were unable to unearth a complete guide to this process, but what we were able to find is quite fascinating! Mostly personal anecdotes, but I hope you'll find it useful."  
  
Glyph beamed at them, full of patience and kindness, and no wonder he and Cliffjumper got on so well. Agitation seemed to roll off Glyph's back like it couldn't touch him.  
  
"Thank you, Glyph," First Aid said in a pointed tone with an even more pointed look at Ratchet. "I'm sure it'll be helpful."  
  
Ratchet took out a datapad and set it on the table. He twirled a stylus in his fingers. "I'm ready to learn. There are one too many dumbafts around for this to be anything but a disaster."  
  
Glyph chuckled. "Knowledge is the best defense."  
  
"Agreed." First Aid sat up straight, his stylus hovering over his datapad, like the perfect student.  
  
Glyph flicked on a vidscreen. By Primus, he'd prepared a slide show. Ratchet groaned internally as the lights dimmed and Glyph picked up a clicker.  
  
"Based on what the new Prime told us, we started by researching associated keywords in the oldest bits of recovered lore," Glyph said as he clicked to a picture of the dilapidated ruins of the Iacon and Protihex archives. "What was most astonishing is the amount of information we didn't find. Linked threads which led to deleted files, huge sections of data which had been purposefully removed, other bits of information hidden behind extensive firewalling. Someone worked very hard to conceal this."  
  
"Someone?" First Aid echoed. "Could you tell who?"  
  
Glyph sighed and clicked to another screen, displaying a map of dark information paths and destroyed hard drives. "There were Senate-level signatures on many of the approved deletion queries, though some of the physical destruction suggests it was done by the Quintessons."  
  
"So you weren't able to find anything official?" Ratchet asked.  
  
"A few reports from medics, buried in patient files who had gone to facilities for issues other than their pregnancy -- and I am using pregnancy as a short-form term. We may decide something suits better," Glyph said.  
  
"Can we have copies of those?" First Aid asked around his ferocious scribbling.  
  
Glyph beamed. "Of course! A lot of it is written in medical shorthand and jargon. Cliffjumper and I couldn't parse it, but perhaps a medic will have a better understanding."  
  
First Aid nodded.  
  
Ratchet checked his chronometer. Only five minutes had passed. He hadn't been fond of school back when he attended the academy. He wasn't particularly fond of it now.  
  
Couldn't they just write up a brief report and let Ratchet read that? He was the CMO! He didn't have time to sit here and take a lesson in old-school reproduction.  
  
Glyph clicked to another image, this time a diagram and schematic, and ah, yes. This was a lot more helpful. Ratchet sat up straighter and peered at the screen.  
  
Glyph's pointer highlighted an area. "You should recognize this as a part most medics do not understand the importance of right now," he said, gesturing to a vaguely oval shape in the standard mech's midsection. "It was largely considered vestigial, often surgically extracted in certain cases, though nanites would replace it given enough time."  
  
"We learned to just leave it alone," Ratchet said. "It wasn't doing any harm, and removing it was pointless."  
  
First Aid tilted his head. "You know, given what Rodimus said about the process, I'm not surprised nanites rebuilt it. The whole thing emerges at, err, birth. Doesn't it?"  
  
Glyph nodded and gave First Aid a bright grin. "Precisely! Very astute of you, First Aid."  
  
"That makes sense. If it's a resource-heavy process, expelling the entire gestational chamber would force a frame to spend time recovering before hosting another... child," Ratchet said, though the last word felt odd in his mouth.  
  
Organics had children. Humans had children. Cybertronians did not.  
  
They did, however, know from experience that it took time to regrow the organ. Ratchet had little doubt that if the chamber had been birthed rather than surgically removed, it might take even longer, because the coding would inform the nanites of the birth.  
  
"Indeed. All of the anecdotal reports we found seem to confirm that." Glyph clicked to another image which had three different case study numbers on it. "These, however, were mechs who presented either without the gestational tank or were unable to carry more than one child. There were deficiencies in their coding."  
  
"Transplants?" First Aid asked.  
  
Glyph shook his head. "I'm not a medic. There were none reported as successful. I was only able to find a reference to two attempts -- both rejected."  
  
Which didn't mean it was impossible. There could have been other, successful attempts, but Glyph was unable to find those records. Honestly, Ratchet was impressed by the amount of data Glyph had been able to recover, given the war, and the Senate's attempts to conceal the whole process.  
  
Ratchet made a mental note to include gestational chamber checks in all future yearly maintenances.  
  
"What about control methods?" First Aid asked. "How can we prevent accidental pregnancies or unwanted pregnancies?"  
  
"I wasn't able to find any particular mention of control methods, but the good news is that this process requires several specific steps. It's unlikely to happen by accident," Glyph said, and he clicked to another slide.  
  
Unlikely, but not impossible, Ratchet thought sourly. Given enough high grade, anything could happen.  
  
"What exactly is the process?" Ratchet asked as he made another mental note, this time to start researching his own methods of a control process. If he could prevent any accidents, he was all for it. "I think we can worry about control and all that, once we actually know how it happens, since Rodimus' story was less than clear."  
  
"Again, I could only find anecdotal evidence, but even so, I was able to piece together a fairly clear idea of the process." Glyph gestured to the screen, where a diagram now took center stage, probably created by hand as it was too clear and precise to have been scavenged from an archive.  
  
"First is the coding," Glyph gestured to the top of the flow chart. "Unless it's activated, the gestational tank is indeed just a vestigial organ. It serves no purpose."  
  
First Aid nodded and took notes, like the diligent student he was. "Strange that over the centuries, it wasn't gradually written out of our coding."  
  
"We haven't surveyed the surviving population. There might be more mechs without it than we realize," Ratchet pointed out.  
  
Glyph's optics brightened. "What an interesting study! I shall add it to the list." He beamed and pulled out a datapad, scribbling it down, before he pointed to the next stage. "Next is the actual implantation, the sparking process as it was often called. This requires three components: a receptive valve, a functional spike, and a spark merge."  
  
Ahhh. That was the secret.  
  
"So the two mechs have to be sharing spark energies at the time of overload?" First Aid asked.  
  
"Precisely." Glyph clicked to another slide, which was a close up diagram of the gestational chamber and the conduits around it. "The coding activates two things: the shunt which directs spark energy to the tank, and the charger for the nanites in a mech's transfluid. Both are needed to spark the protomass secreted by a functional gestational tank."  
  
Ratchet grumbled, "Multiple opportunities for failure or coding glitches then. Wonderful."  
  
On top of that, a whole new system they'd have to learn how to fix or handle. Multiple opportunities for things to go wrong, and for their patients to come to them for answers.  
  
It was a nightmare.  
  
"A bond isn't necessary?" First Aid asked.  
  
"Not as far as I can tell. Of the multiple sources I found, not all of them were bonded. All that is required is a certain measure of trust among the participants."  
  
"Among," Ratchet echoed, and he narrowed his optics. That was some precise phrasing. "Are you suggesting it's possible to have more than two mechs involved?"  
  
For the first time, Glyph's calm poise faltered a little. He shifted as his face visibly heated. "I found, um, two very personal anecdotes which seemed to indicate multiple partners were involved in the implantation, and the resulting sparkling's molecular coding reflected that."  
  
First Aid made a strangled noise.  
  
Ratchet wanted to echo him, except on Primus. He wanted to put Primus in front of him and wring the deity's neck because why. Why did they need even more complications?  
  
"Wonderful," Ratchet said.  
  
"For some, probably," First Aid said, giving Ratchet an askance look. "I'm thinking of mechs like Breakdown, Knock Out, and Snarl."  
  
Ratchet's head hurt.  
  
He gestured at Glyph. "As much as I don't want you to, let's get this over with. What other wonderful surprises did you find?"  
  
The rest wasn't any more simple or uncomplicated or ripe with opportunities for failure or complications.  
  
Growth rate varied by frame and spark type. The gestational process seemed to require an uptick in energon consumption, along with the requirement of additional supplements. Luckily, because the tank itself was fitted for an individual's frame, a carrier's frame did not round out like a pregnant organic might. From the outside, it would be nearly impossible to tell if a mech was sparked.  
  
"Though there are exceptions," Glyph was quick to point out with a few archived image captures flashing up on the screen. "For example, this small mech carrying for his shuttle. Or this mech here, who had split-spark twins."  
  
The birthing process was fairly simple. The mech's chassis parted on its own, and ejected the entire gestational chamber, which detached itself from the mech's frame. The tank itself seemed to form the exterior of the sparkling's frame, and would be eventually absorbed into the sparkling itself as the sparkling's nanites gradually reworked the materials into suitable plating.  
  
Over-time, the sparkling's nanites would help it "grow". It consumed a lot of energon to power the nanites, which self-replicated at a massive pace compared to that of a fully-grown adult Cybertronian. Sparklings could learn by uploads or actual instruction.  
  
By the end of it, there was only one thing Ratchet knew for certain.  
  
"We need a volunteer," he said as he tossed down his stylus and rubbed his aching temples. "This research is good and all, but we need real-time experience."  
  
"I'm sure we can find one," First Aid said, a bit of excitement peeking around the edges of his field. "Frankly, we'll be lucky if we can convince anyone to wait. I'm already fielding comms from mechs ready to get their code activated now."  
  
Ratchet sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. "We don't have to look far," he admitted. "Wheeljack has been ready since he first heard about it."  
  
"But you're not?" First Aid asked.  
  
"I am cautious," Ratchet said. He braced his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. "Glyph, I'm grateful for your research and these anecdotes, but this is still a process we are unfamiliar with. Any number of things could go wrong."  
  
Wheeljack insisted on being the one to carry, because he wanted Ratchet's advice during the process. Ratchet would never forgive himself if anything happened to Wheeljack. Yes, he'd love to raise a sparkling, but not at the cost of Wheeljack.  
  
There was nothing in the world Ratchet loved more.  
  
"Luckily, you don't have to figure it out by yourself," First Aid said, and he scooted his chair closer, laying a hand on Ratchet's arm. "I'll be there. Ambulon will be there. I think between the three of us, and anyone else with medical experience, we can figure it out."  
  
"You may be right," Ratchet conceded.  
  
First Aid straightened and brightened, his field taking a mischievous edge. "Besides, from what I hear, if any of us spark first, it'll be Starscream and Grimlock."  
  
"I have been getting a ping from them for the past twenty minutes, wanting copies of what I discovered," Glyph said.  
  
Ratchet chuckled. He was not the least bit surprised. "I guess we'll just have to see who wins the race."  
  
In the meantime, he supposed he'd have another conversation with Wheeljack. There was nothing he wouldn't give Wheeljack if it was within his power, and this was no exception.  
  


~

  
  
Ten years, for a Cybertronian, used to be nothing.  
  
Looking at Cliffjumper now, standing in front of him with squared shoulders and a raised chin, and a field emanating confidence and proud, Optimus reflected that ten years made all the difference now. Perhaps they'd spent too long with the humans, their outlook on life adapting to something more ephemeral.  
  
Whatever the reason, Optimus was glad for it, because the Cliffjumper before him today bore little resemblance to the Cliffjumper they rescued from Astrotrain and Blitzwing's quarters.  
  
"I don't have Glyph's talent for presentation," Cliffjumper said as he handed Optimus a datapad. "The medics're getting the whole slideshow. You just get a datapad."  
  
Optimus chuckled. "Given my schedule, I prefer this."  
  
"Me, too," Hot Rod said from his seat nearby, deftly concealing a yawn behind one hand. "I don't wanna go to anything that looks like school."  
  
Optimus tossed the new Prime a fond look. Hot Rod had been very reluctant from the beginning, but he bore the lessons in stride. Or as well as could be expected. He didn’t complain, to give him credit, though Optimus occasionally caught him staring wistfully out the window, his face creased with thought.  
  
“I’m sorry it’s not much,” Cliffjumper said as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Optimus couldn’t convince him to take a more relaxed stance. “There just isn’t much to find. Primes kept their knowledge to themselves, especially about themselves.”  
  
Optimus barely stopped himself from rubbing his chassis, where he used to house the Matrix. He could remember some of the vast swathes of knowledge stored within the device, but as the years went on, the information gradually seeped out of his storage banks, as if it was designed to leave him without a constant refresh.  
  
“What are the key points?” Optimus asked as he powered on the datapad and began to skim it.  
  
He frowned.  
  
Cliffjumper wasn’t wrong. There wasn’t much information to be found. A few general statements of prior Prime ascensions. There were personal anecdotes from those who had served with a Prime. But there was nothing from a Prime themself, as if their comments had been stricken from the record on purpose, or were designed to remain with the Matrix and the Matrix alone.  
  
“We need a Prime to operate the starbridge,” Cliffjumper said and his gaze slid to Hot Rod briefly. “Which is maybe why the Matrix showed up when it did. Maybe digging up the starbridges triggered something.”  
  
“Hm.” Optimus rapped his fingers on the desk. “That’s entirely possible. The Matrix did have a sort of sentience into itself.” Though sentience was perhaps the wrong word. The combined wisdom and memories of all the past Primes, including Prima the first, formed a personality matrix which had a sentience.  
  
“Yeah, but the Matrix didn’t give itself to me,” Hot Rod pointed out as he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, idly twirling a stylus between his fingers. “Primus did. Or at least, that’s what he called himself. I dunno. I guess the Matrix could’ve taken on an image of Primus or something.”  
  
Cliffjumper shook his head. “Nah. One thing’s pretty obvious. Only Primus picks a Prime, and only Primus can give them the Matrix.” He grinned, and it was bright and cheerful. “Primus is back. He’s awake. Cybertron’s awake, too. It’s gotta be.”  
  
Optimus certainly hoped it was.  
  
“It would be good news if he were,” Optimus said, before his skimming caught a new word. He paused, backtracked, and read the notation again. “What’s this about a guardian?”  
  
“We don’t know,” Cliffjumper said, and his tone was exceedingly apologetic, as if Optimus would blame him or Glyph for their inability to discover concrete answers in archives buried after war and disuse. “It’s the important part, though, other than needing a Prime to activate the starbridges. It’s supposed to guard them, to make sure no one uses them who shouldn’t, but what it is, or if it’s even real, we couldn’t tell.”  
  
“It might just be a myth?” Hot Rod asked.  
  
Cliffjumper shrugged. “Dunno.”  
  
Optimus swallowed a sigh. This would have been the time he’d usually consult the Matrix and the wisdom of the past Primes. His gaze slid to Hot Rod, who was frowning, his brow drawn in deep lines.  
  
“Hot Rod?” he prompted.  
  
There was a moment where Hot Rod’s silence might have spoken volumes, until he slowly shook his head, shoulders sinking down. “I mean, I poked it, but I don’t really know how this thing works.” He thumped his chest pointedly. “Primus didn’t give me a user’s guide or anything. It talks when it wants to.”  
  
“Do you think it’s something we should be concerned about?” Optimus asked, directing the question toward Cliffjumper.  
  
He jumped as if startled to be asked and scratched at his chin. “Uh. I dunno. Maybe? Glyph seemed to think it was legitimate, but it was only mentioned in a couple of old stories.” Cliffjumper offered a sheepish grin. “Sorry, sir. We’re going to keep looking.”  
  
“Have, uh, the people who are digging found anything?” Hot Rod asked, sounding hesitant, as if he was trying on this new role they’d given him, and wasn’t sure he liked the fit. “Any kind of sign of a guardian or something dangerous?”  
  
“Not to my knowledge.” Optimus tilted his head and contemplated.  
  
Unearthing the starbridges was a joint effort with the Decepticons, the Autobots, and the Neutrals. All three factions had loaned their very best engineers and construction workers to this task, and the leadership of all three factions received weekly updates from the crews as to their progress. Optimus wasn’t following it personally, he had far too many things to manage. He’d given that particular task to Perceptor, who he expected would contact him if anything was amiss.  
  
“I’ll let the teams know to be careful and observant,” Optimus said at length, as Cliffjumper twitched where he stood, and Hot Rod started to frown, idly rubbing his chassis. “Maybe this guardian is a myth, maybe it’s a genuine concern. Only time will tell.”  
  
Activating the starbridges was too important to stop now. They were a large source of hope for every Cybertronian. The data was too flimsy and vague to consider putting a kibosh on the entire project.  
  
Optimus doubted highly he could get Grimlock or Xaaron to agree to cease excavations based on a few whispers from the archives.  
  
“And Glyph and I will keep researching,” Cliffjumper said. “Just in case.”  
  
Optimus nodded. “Thank you, Cliffjumper. And please extend my gratitude to Glyph as well. The work you two are doing is invaluable.”  
  
Pride bloomed across Cliffjumper’s face and field like sunrise, and it soothed Optimus’ spark to see it. He’d been so worried about Cliffjumper for so long, and it relieved him to see the minibot having found his way back to solid ground. Recovery was still a long process -- Optimus was familiar with it himself -- but to see Cliffjumper healing was a much needed balm to the guilt Optimus had yet to surrender.  
  
“Thank you, sir,” Cliffjumper said, and he bobbed in place, as if his excitement was too much to contain. “I’ll tell Glyph that, too.” He tossed off a salute, though Optimus had long since told them such things weren’t necessary. “Have a good day.”  
  
Cliffjumper left, and Optimus muffled a chuckle, returning his attention to the report Cliffjumper had given him. The guardian statement wasn’t the only thing which had stood out, but it did seem to be the most relevant.  
  
“You make it look so easy.”  
  
Optimus blinked and looked up at Hot Rod, who was still rubbing his chassis, but now frowning, but less at Optimus than it seemed to be directed to himself. “Which part?” Optimus asked.  
  
Hot Rod tilted his head toward the door. “Cliffjumper. Or, well, I guess, being someone people can respect? Like? I dunno.” He rubbed the back of his head then dropped his hands into his lap, fiddling with his datapad. “You just always seem to know the right thing to say.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Optimus put down the datapad and folded his arms across it. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Hot Rod.”  
  
“Honestly, Prime, I could use all the help. Spill,” Hot Rod said with a crooked smile, his spoiler halves offering a jaunty tilt.  
  
Optimus chuckled. “There’s no real secret save time and experience. I was much older than you when I received the Matrix, and I’ve been Prime for a long time. I didn’t come into my Prime-hood being respected. I had to earn it.”  
  
And sometimes, he still feared he wasn’t worthy of it.  
  
“It is a constant state of earning,” Optimus added, and he couldn’t tell if his words were reassuring to Hot Rod, or putting a larger burden on him. “Surround yourself with mechs you trust, whose advice you will heed. Be willing to admit when you are wrong, but stand up for what you think is right, and the rights of those who can’t stand for themselves. Other than that, there’s no real secret.”  
  
“Just a lot of work,” Hot Rod said.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Hot Rod sighed, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I got a long road ahead of me then. You’re a hard act to follow, you know.”  
  
“I have complete faith in you, Hot Rod. And you won’t be doing this alone.” This much Optimus had vowed. He might want to retire, but he wouldn’t do so until he was sure Hot Rod was confident in his place.  
  
Hot Rod bent over his datapad, hiding behind it, and Optimus spotted the warmth in his face, and the flush in his field. “Thanks,” he said.  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  


~

  
  
Starscream was mobbed the moment he stepped out of his quarters, Skywarp and Thundercracker lying in wait for him outside the door, though they knew they were more than welcome to wait inside. He and Grimlock had found a place with a receiving room for that very reason.  
  
Starscream arched an orbital ridge at them, sensing mischief, which Skywarp could rather frequently convince Thundercracker to assist him with. “Can I help you?”  
  
Skywarp beamed.  
  
Thundercracker rolled his optics and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his arms folded under his cockpit.  
  
“So,” Skywarp said, with that playful chirp that only made Starscream twice as suspicious, “We just got our coding upload.”  
  
Starscream’s orbital ridge climbed higher. “Congratulations?”  
  
"Do you have any tips or tricks for us?" Skywarp asked as he fell into step beside Starscream, hands tucked behind his back, beaming innocently.  
  
Starscream didn't believe it for a second. He eyed Thundercracker, but their most inscrutable trinemate had not clarification to offer.  
  
"No. The medics haven't come up with guidelines yet. This is all new material for us," Starscream said. He squinted into Skywarp's mischief. "Why?"  
  
"You mean that you and Grimlock haven't started trying yet?" Skywarp's optics rounded with false disbelief, because the edge of his smirk was far too much of a tease. "Now that's surprising."  
  
Starscream rolled his optics. "Say what you mean, idiot." He tilted his head toward Thundercracker, walking sedately on Skywarp's other side. "You're in league with him?"  
  
"It is an unfortunate requirement in a relationship, I'm told," Thundercracker said, and his wings fluttered. "Swoop and Skywarp are impossible to argue against."  
  
That Starscream can believe.  
  
"We are trying," he conceded. "Whether or not we are successful, who knows? There isn't enough knowledge on the process to give us a definitive answer."  
  
"I knew it!" Skywarp grinned, triumphant.  
  
"I'm not against sparking," Thundercracker said, his tone far more controlled and even. "It is important for the future of Cybertron. I'm merely against plunging into the unknown without guidelines."  
  
Starscream shrugged. "Someone has to be the trailblazer. In this, Grimlock and I agree." It was something of a misconception that he and Grimlock agreed on everything. The argued frequently; they simply chose to do it where no one could see or hear them, to always present a united front to the rest of the Decepticons, and Cybertron by proxy.  
  
"We're trying, too," Skywarp said and his field butted up against Starscream's with happiness. "Either me or Swoop want to carry. Not that we know what we're doing either. Who else do you think might try?"  
  
"I don't want to guess," Starscream said in a dry tone. He wasn't in the habit of speculating on the interfacing habits of his underlings. There were few he wanted to imagine in the throes of ecstasy.  
  
He eyed Thundercracker. "You don't want to carry?"  
  
Thundercracker shook his head. "No. The very idea of having another being... building itself in my frame is uncomfortable." He grimaced, and a shiver of disgust ran across his frame. "I will help raise the bitlet, and contribute to its forming if at all possible, but I don't want to carry."  
  
"It's okay. Swoop and I are fine with it. What about you and Grimlock?" Skywarp asked, because he'd never heard of a boundary he wasn't willing to dance right over.  
  
Starscream smirked. "It's a race to see who gets sparked first. He's as eager to carry as I am." Which he knew would probably be surprising to anyone who didn't know how much Grimlock hungered for a family.  
  
Grimlock had grown up on Earth, been influenced by Earth and human culture. Their idea of family had seeped into every inch of his core. He treated Ratchet and Wheeljack as his parents, the other Dinobots as his brothers, and now, he compared Skywarp and Thundercracker to brothers-in-law.  
  
Family was important to Grimlock. It was starting to be important to Starscream as well. He had to admit, there was appeal to it, to the organic concept of family.  
  
"It must be a Dinobot thing," Skywarp said, and tapped his bottom lip. "I wonder if Snarl is interested? Or Cyclonus and Tailgate? Or Deathsaurus?" His optics lit up, wings flick-flicking with excitement. "Can you imagine a little baby dragon? I'll bet it would be the cutest thing."  
  
Thundercracker sighed quietly. "We have no idea what these... sparklings are going to look like when they emerge? They may bear resemblance to their parents, or they might not. We aren't organics, Skywarp."  
  
Skywarp rolled his optics. "I know that. I can still imagine it." He stuck out his glossa at Thundercracker -- another human behavior they'd adopted. "Besides, any kid of you and me and Swoop is gonna be a flier. We all know that."  
  
"We hope that," Thundercracker corrected.  
  
"Regardless of how they emerge, they are necessary," Starscream said, and it was half as much to them as it was to himself. He was more than aware he'd mated a grounder, and a predacon at that. He had no idea what the merging of their coding might produce. "We are, as a species, growing extinct. We need everyone who is willing to spark."  
  
"Within reason," Skywarp pointed out. "We're doing fine with resources now, but if everyone decided to spark, plus all the Cybertronians that keep wandering toward us, we might start to run out again."  
  
Every once in a while, Skywarp proved he had a processor along with the tricks and jokes and occasionally childish behavior.  
  
"We can't dictate who is allowed to spark, unfortunately," Starscream said, although he wished they could. There were some mechs, not imprisoned, he wouldn't trust with an innocent being. But the most they could do was keep an optic on those mechs.  
  
Perhaps it was time to start legitimately thinking about forming a special operatives team again, since Soundwave defected and Barricade was never going to find freedom, short of a complete reprogramming or processor wipe.  
  
"But we can remind everyone that resources are not unlimited, and if anyone wants to wait to spark until we are on firmer ground, that would be advantageous," Starscream finished.  
  
They arrived at his office -- and Starscream didn't think he'd ever get over the fact he had a genuine, official office which was his and his alone. Starscream keyed open the door, his trinemates following him inside, Skywarp flopping into one chair while Thundercracker eased onto another.  
  
He sat at his desk, powered up his console, and was unsurprised when it immediately chimed at him several times -- he had more than a handful of internal messages waiting for him. Most of it were items he deliberately forwarded to his office console rather than addressing them internally.  
  
Specifically, anything from Shockwave was for office hours only. Starscream might be the Winglord and Second in Command of the Decepticons, but he didn't waste a second of his free time on anything Shockwave had to say.  
  
"I suppose you two intend to haunt my office all day?" Starscream asked as he skimmed the first of Shockwave's messages before moving on to the next one. The daily reports of Shockwave's efforts -- signed off on by his daily babysitter -- tended to be dry and uninteresting.  
  
"Swoop's with Ratchet getting another certification. We're off-duty," Skywarp said with a shrug. "Thought we could convince you to play hooky and come fly with us."  
  
Starscream snorted. "Given that dealing with Shockwave is apparently on my to-do list, I might just." He squinted at the screen.  
  
"Is he still asking for his freedom?" Thundercracker asked.  
  
"Only once every few months. I think he has the message on auto-send at this point." Starscream leaned back, rapping his talons on the desk top. "This is different. He wants to be granted an escort to the starbridge control dig site. His sensors have been picking up readings he wants to see in person."  
  
"Yeah. Fat chance of that," Skywarp said, rolling his optics. "Does he think we're stupid?"  
  
"I assume he's relying on us being desperate at some point," Starscream said absently. He typed up a quick reply to Shockwave -- the aforementioned refusal -- and instructed the scientist to forward any readings and theories to Perceptor and the scientists currently assigned the review of the starbridges.  
  
Frankly, it was a shame they could not trust Shockwave. He was a brilliant mind, and a brilliant scientist, and if he was at all trustworthy, they could use him to research all of the new truths recently unearthed.  
  
But Shockwave could not be trusted. He had no moral center. He was willing to do anything, no matter the cost. Well, so long as the cost was on someone else.  
  
Starscream sent off the reply, and his computer chimed with an immediate response. "URGENT," it claimed, and it was from Shockwave.  
  
Starscream sighed and skimmed the text, but it was nothing more than the same warnings he'd given before. Mysterious readings. Unable to determine cause. Use caution. Blah, blah. Everything the overseer at the excavation site already knew.  
  
"You're right. I need some air," Starscream said, minimizing the message, and putting his console into hibernation. He'd deal with Shockwave later.  
  
After a flight. To clear his head.  
  
Skywarp cheered his victory. Thundercracker smirked. Starscream abandoned his desk, but not before sending a quick message to Brainstorm, suggesting he swing by and have a conversation with Shockwave, just to see what all the fuss was about.  
  


~

  
  
Two weeks later, Hot Rod was no longer willing to be patient.  
  
Jazz had not answered any of his messages, save for the official ones Hot Rod sent on behalf of Optimus per his training. Jazz hadn't sent any messages of his own either, not even friendly ones he used to send -- pictures of beautiful Earth landscapes, or new songs he'd found, or random thoughts throughout his day.  
  
None of it.  
  
If he wanted nothing more to do with Hot Rod, all Jazz had to do was say it. This silence, this ghosting, it was childish and immature and--  
  
Well, Hot Rod had enough.  
  
If it was over, it would hurt, but at least Hot Rod would have an answer, rather than this anxious state of not-knowing and waiting. He needed something more than silence.  
  
Time was he would have had to ask permission to use the space bridge to visit Earth. Now, he was Rodimus Prime (eventually) and all he had to do was tell Optimus he wanted to visit Earth for a day, and voila, the way was opened to him.  
  
Optimus had given him a knowing look, too, and maybe, Optimus had opened the door quickly. He and Jazz had been close -- before Soundwave -- and Optimus probably had an inkling of why Hot Rod wanted to go to Earth.  
  
Enough was enough.  
  
He did have to wait until a previously scheduled transmission moment, to save on energon usage, but that gave him plenty of time to decide what he was going to say.  
  
Hot Rod showed up and waited, standing off to the side by a crate of supplies due to be delivered to Griffin Rock. The ground fairly hummed beneath his feet as they powered up the spacebridge, though there was a delay as they waited to receive before they would send.  
  
He tapped his foot as he waited. He was, maybe, a little impatient. He wanted answers. He needed to know. This hazy state of in-between was a unique kind of torture, an anxiety he didn't need on top of all the responsibility suddenly dumped on his plate.  
  
The ground thrummed. The spacebridge swirled to life in a pulse of blue-green color, and the air fairly hummed with the power of it.  
  
Hot Rod straightened. Only a few more minutes now. Once the arrivals moved out of the way, he could step onto the platform. He had no idea what was scheduled to arrive. More raw ore for the fabrication plants maybe.  
  
One mech stepped through the bridge, and Hot Rod's spark stuttered. Maybe this was Primus' hand at work, because Jazz appeared smiling, looking well rested, like he hadn't fretted at all in the past two weeks.  
  
What had been a subtle curdle of anxiety in his belly blossomed to a full flush of fiery anger. His hands curled at his sides.  
  
He stepped out of the departure line and headed straight for Jazz, on a course to intercept.  
  
Jazz saw him, and it must have been a real shock, because he didn't manage to hide his surprise in time. Hot Rod caught the flicker of his visor, the twitch of his jaw, before he smoothed it over into his famous, easy-going grin.  
  
"Hey, there, Rodders. Fancy meeting you here," he said, and Hot Rod wasn't fooled by it for a minute.  
  
Hot Rod refused to let the charm seep away his anger. He crossed his arms and stared. "Are you going to keep running away or can we talk?"  
  
Surprise flickered into Jazz's face again, but he kept the playful grin. "Ya know I always got time for you."  
  
"Strangely, that doesn't extend to answering any of my messages."  
  
"Fair enough," Jazz conceded. He rocked on his heelstruts and cast a glance around them, which pointedly, they were in a rather public arena, and blocking the ramp to the spacebridge. "Not here, I'm guessin’."  
  
Hot Rod shook his head. "No. I don't want to feed the rumor mill anymore than we already have. Come on. I know a place." He turned and walked away. He forced himself not to see if Jazz followed.  
  
If he didn't, Hot Rod supposed he had his answer.  
  
He wrapped himself in a cloak of confidence, even though his insides squirmed and twisted into knots. He pretended he knew what he was doing. He pretended Optimus was next to him, offering advice. He pretended the hunk of artifact in his chest actually meant something.  
  
Jazz moved along beside him, and Hot Rod swallowed a vent of relief. Maybe there was something to salvage.  
  
"How was Earth?" Hot Rod asked, to fill the otherwise awkward silence.  
  
"Recovering. Humans are even more adaptable than we are. They'll be fine," Jazz said, and he sounded odd. Like he was issuing a report rather than speaking to a friend.  
  
Maybe that's the way it was going to be from now on. Maybe this new title Hot Rod inherited was the ringing sound of death for their relationship, though relationship was a strong word.  
  
Damn Primus.  
  
Hot Rod hadn't wanted this at all.  
  
"That's good," he said. "You haven't missed much here. Though I suppose you've been getting copies of the daily reports."  
  
"I have. Sparklings and excavations and weird quakes. Sounds about par for the course on Cybertron."  
  
"Mmm." Hot Rod made a noncommittal noise. He lapsed into silence. Awkward nothing was better than this forced conversation.  
  
He didn't let himself look at Jazz. It hurt too much.  
  
Hot Rod led Jazz to the administration center built up around the spacebridge, staffed by members of all three factions alike, along with a small living section for the engineers who preferred to stay nearby rather than make the trek for their shifts. Access to it was carefully monitored for good reason. Jazz would have no trouble. Hot Rod, now, didn't either.  
  
"They're really taking this seriously, aren't they?" Jazz asked, oddly quiet as Hot Rod put his hand on the scanner and it read his signature, granting them access.  
  
"Unfortunately."  
  
Hot Rod knew there was a conference room near the bridge control. He took Jazz there, relieved to find it unoccupied, and used his new clearance to make sure they had privacy. He locked the door, dropped the audio recording, but left the video recording, because he couldn't cancel both. Safety measures were in place -- even for a Prime.  
  
"Still not sold on being a Prime?" Jazz asked, his tone light, but his armor twitching as it clamped to his frame, and he found the view from the windows fascinating, though all they did was look down on the spacebridge.  
  
"I never wanted to be a Prime. I wasn’t given a choice." Hot Rod forewent the uncomfortable chairs around the small table, and sat on the table instead, behind where Jazz stared out the window.  
  
He knew, by the way Jazz's tires twitched, he felt the weight of Hot Rod's gaze, and it discomfited him.  
  
Good.  
  
Maybe he could get a small taste of the way Hot Rod had felt for the past two weeks.  
  
"I think that's just the way it is. Primus don't give it to the ones who want it, 'cause they'll misuse it," Jazz said.  
  
Hot Rod worked his jaw. "I don't want to talk about being a Prime."  
  
"Just making conversation, Rodimus."  
  
"Stop." Hot Rod cycled a ventilation, forced it through the hitch in his vents. "Don't call me that. If you're trying to put distance here, well, congratulations, you succeeded. All you had to do was say it. You didn't have to play this game."  
  
Jazz half-turned, and all Hot Rod had was a glimpse of the light in his visor. "Didn't think what we had was something that needed to be said."  
  
"What we had were on your terms, Jazz. Not mine."  
  
"You never asked for anything else."  
  
"You made it pretty clear I shouldn't."  
  
Jazz sucked in a long breath, rocked on his heels, and moved away from the window, as if he were too restless to stay in one place. "Are you asking now?"  
  
Hot Rod swallowed, trying to vent through the nauseating churn of regret and anger in his belly. "I'm asking for answers. Real ones. No games."  
  
Jazz rubbed a hand around his mouth, glancing past Hot Rod with a shift of his visor before returning his attention to Hot Rod, still with that distance between them, too far for Hot Rod to get a read on his field, even with the boost the Matrix now gave him.  
  
"Ask," he said.  
  
Hot Rod nodded, and gathered his thoughts. He'd just... lay his cards out on the table, and see what hand the universe dealt him.  
  
"I've never pushed for anything from you," Hot Rod began, and hoped he didn't screw this up. "I'm not going to push for anything now. I just want to know if I should bother comming you, or if you'd rather walk away, so I know what I'm in for."  
  
Jazz rubbed his face again, and now his armor had drawn tight to his protoform, like he was in the middle of battle and needed to protect himself. "I don't-- I don't want to walk away. That's not what's happening here."  
  
"Really feels like it," Hot Rod said.  
  
Jazz's shoulders slumped. "I know. I just..." He trailed off, vents huffing, as though frustrated with himself, or the situation, or the fact Hot Rod had backed him into a corner.  
  
He didn't know.  
  
All he knew was that he needed an answer now. One way or another.  
  
"Look, you don't want to deal with this, that's fine," Hot Rod said, and he thumped his chassis for emphasis, against the old artifact which had done nothing but ruin his life. "I don't want to deal with it either. I don't get that choice, but you do. So take the out, Jazz. No harm, no foul. I won't blame you. We can walk away friends."  
  
It would hurt. But it was better than this in-between.  
  
"I don't want the out," Jazz said, but his conviction didn't seem to match his words, and he was so damn impossible to read.  
  
Hot Rod threw up his hands. "Then what do you fragging want? You're going to have to tell me, because things have changed, and we can't keep on the way they were. I can't keep on that way." He jabbed a thumb toward his chestplate. "I've gotta deal with this. I can't do that and try and read your fragging mind, too. I need one less worry."  
  
Jazz raked a hand over his head. "I get that, I do. But I need time. I need to figure this out. I need--"  
  
"You had time," Hot Rod snapped, and he hopped off the table, because the agitation in his limbs needed room to move. "You had two whole weeks of ignoring me to figure it out. I don't have time to give you, so if that's your answer, then that's it. I'm walking away."  
  
"Roddy--"  
  
He shook his head. "No, Jazz. No. I can't." He worked his intake, felt the heat at the back of his optics, and swallowed it down. "I have never asked for anything because that's not what we were. That's not enough for me anymore."  
  
He paused, took a deep breath and gathered himself. He was a Prime now. He could do this.  
  
"So here and now, I want an answer," Hot Rod said, and stepped closer to Jazz, close enough he could read Jazz's field, if he so chose. "Do you want to try an actual relationship with me, or do you want to take the out?"  
  
Jazz looked at him, his mouth opened and closed, and in an instant, Hot Rod saw it -- the urge to flee in the tremble of Jazz's limbs, the way his visor flickered, the way he took a step back from Hot Rod.  
  
He didn't have an answer.  
  
And well.  
  
That was answer enough.  
  
"Alright," Hot Rod said, and he gentled his tone, heard the crackling in his vocalizer, and fought to reset it away. "That's it then."  
  
A rumble echoed beneath his feet. For a moment, Hot Rod thought he'd imagined it, because the weight of emotion in the room was so heavy. But then it came again, heavier, stronger. Hot Rod had a second to frown, confused, when the world tossed out from beneath him.  
  
A great cracking noise split the air. A rumble like a thousand pieces of metal and stone pouring into a tumbler made his audials ring. The ground shook so hard, it tossed Hot Rod to the floor, the lights flickering, his own gyros destabilizing. Lights flashed in alarm, but he couldn't hear the sirens over the cacophony.  
  
Hot Rod struggled to get his bearings as his entire world quaked, and his vision wobbled, and his audials screeched feedback at him. A painting toppled from the wall. The transsteel of the windows fractured. Jazz tumbled to the floor.  
  
It lasted forever and no time at all. It tapered off, and then it stopped, leaving only the screeching whine of the alert sirens to fill the quiet.  
  
Hot Rod reset his gyros, his sensors, and climbed to his feet with a groan, standing on unsteady legs. He gripped the table to keep himself upright, the alarm lights flashing brightly.  
  
"What the frag was that?" Jazz demanded. He, too, was shaky on his feet.  
  
"I don't know," Hot Rod said. He hurried to the window, peering through the cracked transsteel, but couldn't see anything beyond toppled stacks of crates and mechs rushing around below. "But we need to get back to Polyhex. Now."  
  
"I couldn't agree more," Jazz said.  
  
Before they could exit, however, Hot Rod grabbed Jazz's arm. "We'll finish this later."  
  
Jazz nodded. "Yeah. I guess we will."  
  


~

  
  
It wasn't pandemonium, but it was close.  
  
Optimus ran to the command center, Soundwave on his heels, and joined a mass of Autobot officers gathering as a result of the quake. Status reports poured in, faster than they could absorb, were it not for Flare sitting front and center, cabled into the main console.  
  
"He shoved me out of the way, sir," said Mainframe when Optimus cast him a curious look. The conn tech shrugged. "Figured he could handle it better than I could."  
  
"I'm getting reports, Prime. Multiple ones. The quake was planet-wide," Flare said, and for a moment, Optimus' spark ached. Flare was so much like Red Alert, it was painful to see. "I'm forwarding comments from Commander Grimlock and Leader Xaaron to you."  
  
"Thank you, Flare," Optimus said.  
  
"The epicenter appears to be west of here, beyond Iacon," Ultra Magnus said as he strode onto the command center, already juggling more than a few datapads. "I'm getting word that every starbridge excavation site suffered some damage."  
  
"Repairable?" Optimus asked.  
  
"All but one," Ultra Magnus said, and the look he gave Optimus was grim. "The control center was hit hard. Whatever this was, it came from around there."  
  
"Control bridge adjacent to Hot Rod's disappearance," Soundwave pointed out as he peered over a nav-tech's shoulder, gesturing to the map of the surrounding area.  
  
"I'm getting a priority comm from Perceptor," Flare said, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor. "I don't... I'm not really sure I understand it."  
  
Optimus' spark throbbed. He moved to the conn, taking place of Springer, who stepped aside with a nod. "Forward it to me, Flare."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
It took a moment before Perceptor's voice, on the edge of panic, filtered into Optimus' comm. "--don't know what it is save that it is very large, and it's currently on a direct path for Iacon. It has destroyed our equipment and severely damaged the starbridge controls."  
  
Optimus' spark leapt into his intake. "Hold on a moment, what are you talking about?"  
  
"Oh. Prime." In the background, Optimus could hear shouting, rumbling, mild panic, but Perceptor sounded only faintly ruffled. "The quake you felt seemed to be the result of some large creature pulling itself out of the ground near the starbridge control, damaging it in the process."  
  
"Creature?" Optimus asked, unsure if he heard correctly, while at the same time Flare said, "I'm getting transmitted images."  
  
"Put them up on the main screen, Flare," Ultra Magnus said.  
  
The monitor flickered, filled with static, before what had to be someone's recorded feed began to stream. It was hard to see anything at first, because everything shook and a massive blob seemed to take over most of the image. But then the viewpoint drew back and focused.  
  
The entire Autobot command center took in a collective vent.  
  
Optimus did not know what the creature was. He'd never seen anything like it before. It was massive, a construction of arms and legs and protrusions which seemed to have no definable shape, its outer structure covered in thousands of visible nodules. Biolights ran in spidery veins between the nodules.  
  
It moved on multiple thick, trunklike limbs. It did not move very fast, but it trundled forward, and every step made the ground quake. What seemed to be smokestacks belched a pale gray mist into the air, which rippled on the exodus, suggesting the smoke was accompanied by intense heat. Optimus could not make out anything which resembled a head or face.  
  
"What in Primus' name is that?" Springer said.  
  
"I do not know." Optimus leaned forward, put his hands on the counter, his chest aching where the Matrix used to be. "Put us on high alert. Sound the alarm. I don't think it's here for a friendly chat." He glanced over at Flare. "The highest alert level."  
  
Flare nodded. "Yes, sir."  
  
Ultra Magnus stepped up beside him. "Sir?"  
  
On the screen, the nub-like protrusions fell off, leaving empty cavities behind. Where the spheres hit the ground, they unfolded into a smaller version of the large thing, albeit with less limbs, slightly more bipedal.  
  
"Contact Grimlock and Xaaron. This thing is too big for us to tackle alone," Optimus said, sounding much calmer than he felt. "Put the evacuation protocol on standby as well."  
  
Ultra Magnus nodded. "Yes, sir. It'll be done."  
  
Optimus cycled a ventilation, unable to take his eyes off the screen and the monster heading straight for the center of New Cybertron, albeit at a laborous pace, collecting more and more of an army beneath it.  
  
Perhaps it was their reckoning.  
  
Perhaps Primus hadn't forgiven them after all.  
  


***


	8. Chapter 8

It felt like war.

Only instead of facing down the Decepticons, they stood alongside them, with Neutrals who volunteered their services, while evacuations through the spacebridge to Earth were underway, just as a precaution.

“How long do we have?”

“At the rate it’s moving, an hour. Maybe two, if the Seekers can slow it down. That army will reach us first. It’s faster.”

“Every aerial force we have needs to lay down cover fire.”

  
“What’s the point? Those things regenerate faster than we can kill them. It’s made of a substance unlike anything we’ve ever seen!”

“What do you suggest then? We abandon Cybertron?”

“Of course not. But throwing our soldiers out there to die isn’t a solution either.”

The arguments rose and fell behind him, unproductive and circular.

Hot Rod wished someone would make a decision and stick to it. He used to read stories about enemies coming together against a common foe, putting aside their differences for a greater purpose. Those stories always made it sound so easy.

Clearly, they’d never met three different armies composed of mechs who’d only recently learned to live together on the same planet without trying to kill each other.

A part of Hot Rod felt he should be in the thick of the arguments, making his own opinions known. He was supposed to be a Prime, right? He should be leading.

A larger part of him was glad to be on the periphery, staring out the window at a city in chaos, soldiers running toward the danger while civilians ran away from it, carrying everything that couldn't be replaced. It reminded him too much of Nyon, and the terrible choice he'd made. Funny how things came full circle.

Not funny at all actually.

"It's the Guardian!"

A new voice pierced the arguments. Running footsteps accompanied it, and in the reflection of the window, Hot Rod saw two smaller mechs running into the room, one of them with an armful of datapads. It took him a moment to recognize Cliffjumper, which meant the other must be Glyph. It was rare to see one without the other.

"Guardian? What do you mean?" Optimus asked as they skidded to a halt at the only available space at the conference table, datapads falling out of Glyph's arms to scatter across the surface.

"The starbridges," Glyph said. "They could be dangerous if improperly used, so a safety mechanism was put into place."

"The Guardian," Cliffjumper said.

"It protects the starbridges and the Primal Spark," Glyph rifled through the various datapads as though looking for one in particular. "We must have woken it up, except we didn't follow the rules, we didn't do things the right way because we didn't know, so it's reacting to a perceived threat."

"Us," Cliffjumper said.

“Sorry, sir,” Glyph added with a little bow. “It took us too long to find this information. We could have prevented this if we’d known.”

Optimus held up a hand. “This is not your fault, Glyph. If anyone is to blame, it is those who caused the war which destroyed so many of our archives.”

Hot Rod turned away from the window, joining Optimus at the table instead. He caught a look from the current Prime -- approval? concern? he wasn't sure -- but he put his attention toward Cliffjumper and Glyph anyway.

"How do we stop it?" Starscream asked, his optics narrowed, his arms folded over his cockpit. "That's the only important question."

Glyph and Cliffjumper exchanged a glance.

"Theoretically," Glyph said, and plucked one datapad out of the rest, flicking it on, "It can be controlled by a Prime."

"It's supposed to be programmed to respond to the orders of a Prime," Cliffjumper added with a little nudge to Glyph, maybe encouraging him. "It was originally programmed by, uh... Epistemus?"

Glyph nodded.

"Yeah, Epistemus Prime. He's the one who created the starbridges," Cliffjumper said, and he puffed up his chest with pride.

Optimus, Hot Rod noticed, was rubbing at his chassis again, tracing the seam of his chestplate, as if in memory of the weight of the Matrix. It seemed to be an unconscious motion, but it worried Hot Rod a little. Mostly because he didn't know what it meant.

Grimlock snorted. "Your ancestors put too much weight on the integrity of a Prime," he growled, giving Optimus a sidelong look. "No offense."

"None taken. I may not have all the knowledge, but I am aware that some of my predecessors did not treat the title with the gravitas it deserved," Optimus said.

"Hold on." Xaaron held up a hand, a frown deepening the age-lines in his facial derma. "I don't mean to insult your research, but these starbridges are far older than Epistemus. They predate the Primes."

Glyph and Cliffjumper nodded in unison. "Epistemus created them out of something the Quintessons left behind," Glyph clarified. "He modified their assault platforms to power an internal transport system rather than an external one."

"He's also the one who made and programmed the Guardian," Cliffjumper said with straightened shoulders. "I'll bet he figured they could be used as a weapon so he wanted to make sure if the Quintessons came back, or if something else happened, it wouldn't be so easy to get to the control panel."

"That's where it was," Glyph added. "Buried in and around the starbridge control. As soon as the scientists started messing with it, the Guardian woke and started attacking the nearest threat."

Ultra Magnus nodded slowly. "So you're saying it is reacting on its programming, but a more instinctual imperative. It sees everything as a threat because it was not given straightforward commands by a Prime figure."

"Exactly," Glyph said.

"No one told it who the bad guys are, so right now, everyone's a bad guy," Cliffjumper said.

"This is all well and good," Starscream said with a huff. "We appreciate the history lesson and all, but you haven't answered the most important question." He pointed in the general direction of the approaching threat. "How do we make it stop?"

"We tell it to," Glyph said.

Cliffjumper, however, looked at Optimus. "Or you do, sir. It'll only listen to a Prime."

"Making it stop is the easy part. Getting to where you need to be to tell it to stop is the trick," Glyph said. He pulled out another datapad, flicked a switch, and something like a schematic bloomed to life in the empty space above the changing battlefield displayed on the table.

"It's meant to be steered," Cliffjumper said. "From inside."

Jazz growled, and Hot Rod made himself look at Jazz, pretending it didn't hurt. He had to be professional here. He was going to be a Prime.

"Ya want us to get close enough to get _inside_ this thing?" Jazz demanded.

"If you want to stop it," Glyph said, seemingly unperturbed that a Special Ops mech was glaring at him. He gestured to something that was central to the creature on the screen. "We're guessing the neural center is here because it doesn't have a discernible head."

"You're guessing?" Starscream asked with a frown.

"These schematics are composed of multiple scans transmitted to us by the Seekers and the scientists on the ground who were present when it emerged," Glyph explained as he pointed to several portions of the image where pieces were absent or missing. "We don't actually have blueprints."

"You've got to be kidding me," Springer said in a flat tone.

"I'm not," Glyph said. "If you want to take this thing down, this is what has to be done. A Prime has to go inside, find the central core, and communicate with the Guardian."

Hot Rod's spark throbbed. Or was it the Matrix nestled right up against it? He took a step back from the table, realization pouring through him at Glyph's words.

"I'll do it, of course," Optimus was saying. "It needs to be done."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Glyph, and he did sound apologetic at least. "You're our Prime, but this needs a Matrix."

Hot Rod's chest ached. He took another step backward, and froze when everyone looked at him, expectation heavy in their optics.

"Well," Xaaron said. "At least now we know why Primus chose to bestow the Matrix upon us once again. He must have known we'd have need of it."

Optimus looked pained, whether for Hot Rod or himself, Hot Rod didn't know. But his shoulders sank, and he gave Hot Rod a gentle look. "You offered to return it to me and I declined because I thought I understood Primus' plan better. Clearly, I was wrong. I would take it now, Hot Rod. This must be done."

There was a strangled sound behind Optimus, but Hot Rod didn't look. He shook his head before he thought twice about it. He was many things, but he wasn't a coward. He knew what sacrifice meant. He knew the weight of it.

Primus had given him the Matrix for a reason.

It wasn't Optimus he wanted to do this; it was Hot Rod.

It all made sense. Hot Rod was never meant to be Prime.

In a way, it was a relief. It felt like a massive burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't a Prime; he was a weapon.

"No," Hot Rod said, and Optimus' field rippled with surprise. "I'll do it. Primus gave me the Matrix, so I'll do it." He aimed for a smile, and it slipped on the edges. "I mean, it makes sense, right? I'm the expendable Prime here."

Optimus seized him by the shoulders, though it felt far more gentle than Hot Rod expected. "You are not expendable," he said. "This is not a task which requires your death."

"We assume," Starscream said, probably to be contrary. "We don't really know what stopping this Guardian entails. For all we know, it does require a sacrifice."

"You're not helping, Screamer!" Jazz snapped, and Hot Rod's spark squeezed at the sound of his lover's voice.

Or ex-lover's maybe.

Hot Rod supposed they might not have to have that argument after all.

Starscream shot Jazz a narrow look. "Choosing to ignore the possibilities doesn't make them any less likely. You can draw on Autobot optimism all you want, but the fact remains, we don't know what we're doing. We're making educated guesses."

Hot Rod stepped out from under Optimus' hands, attempting to square his shoulders and project an air of authority he didn't quite feel. "It doesn't matter. It has to be done. Either I figure it out, or this thing destroys what's left of Cybertron, and we lose our home. Again."

He was tired of losing his home.

Springer stepped forward. "Roddy--"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to argue about it. I'm doing it even if I have to do it alone."

“Which you’re not,” Jazz snapped, and he pushed through the crowd, staring defiantly up at the two Primes. “You’re going in with a team. You won’t make it through that army without one.”

“Are you volunteering?” Hot Rod asked, and maybe his tone was a bit too barbed for their public location, but it slipped out before he could control himself.

“Of course I am,” Jazz said, and there was a moment of hurt flickering across his face, or did Hot Rod want it to be there, so he’d only imagined it?

“I’m going, too,” Springer said with a sidelong look at Jazz, just the edge of a sneer. “You’ll need firepower as much as you need to sneak around.”

“We need a plan of action. And quickly,” Optimus said, perhaps sensing the fight beginning to brew between Jazz and Springer.

A fight they did not have time for at the moment, not with the Guardian bearing down on them.

“A small group. No more than half a dozen,” Starscream agreed, stepping up beside Optimus with a contemplative frown as he scanned the holographic map on the table. “We’ll use Seekers to slow it down and distract it, along with ground forces to help clear a path to the main body.”

“And we continue to evacuate. I’d rather have to bring everyone back then take the risk and lose anyone,” Ultra Magnus agreed.

Hot Rod stepped back, away from the table, making more room for others to crowd in around the two holographic displays. He wasn’t a tactician. He didn’t have any experience leading troops.

He’d just go where they pointed him, and carry the Matrix along the way.

Movement in his peripheral vision told him he was no longer alone. The pulse of familiarity in his chassis made identifying the mech even easier.

“I was never much of a tactician myself,” Optimus said, his gaze focused out the window, but his field tentatively touching upon Hot Rod’s. “Times like these, I miss Prowl dearly. Ultra Magnus is brilliant in his own right, but few had Prowl’s talents.”

Hot Rod didn’t know what to say. Offering comfort wasn’t a talent of his either. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, because it might have been a decade ago, but Hot Rod was familiar with loss himself. Time made it easier to bear, but didn’t take the sting away.

Optimus rested his hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder, which was still an odd thing, because they were closer in height and mass now than Hot Rod was accustomed to. He was a few inches shy of matching Optimus’ height, but much, much larger than he’d been before.

“I appreciate that, but my statement had another purpose,” Optimus said, and he got that look in his optics which always seemed to resonate with the Matrix, like he was about to say something the Matrix wanted Hot Rod to pay attention to.

“Do not think being a Prime means you must be alone or have all the answers,” Optimus said. “Learn who you can trust, who you can lean on, look to them to fill in the gaps where your own skill and knowledge is lacking.” His gaze turned distant, full of sorrow. “There is no shame in leaning on your friends.”

Hot Rod suspected that was a lesson Optimus took a while to learn.

He gave Optimus a lop-sided smile. “Honestly, I’m all for letting as many people help me who want to. I don’t want to die.” He didn’t want them to die either, but he also knew, he was surrounded by a lot of stubborn mechs. There’d be no stopping Springer or anyone else who volunteered for what was likely to be a suicide mission for all of them.

If Hot Rod screwed this up, he’d never forgive himself.

“I would take the Matrix and do this,” Optimus said, his tone now quiet and grave, so quiet no one could hear them over the spirited tactical planning a few paces away.

Hot Rod shook his head and touched his chassis, where the Matrix fairly hummed within him. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. I think I’m supposed to do this.” He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he supposed Optimus understood anyway.

Optimus sighed. “Very well.” He turned back toward the window, his armor drawn taut to his frame, lines of worry drawn around him. “I trust you, Hot Rod. I know you can do this.”

Hot Rod gnawed on his bottom lip and folded his arms, staring out the window as well, so he didn’t have to look at anyway. “Thanks,” he said.

He only wished he had as much faith in himself as Optimus seemed to have in him.

~

"Are all of the triage rooms ready?" Ratchet asked as more and more medics started to trickle in to the main hospital.

"They've been ready," First Aid answered from behind an armful of static bandages and nanite paste. "Peace or not, I've been prepared. I honestly expected a riot before this though."

"Not much of an optimist, are you?" Ratchet asked.

First Aid's orbital ridges lifted. "Are you asking me that honestly?"

Ratchet, despite the tension and the stress and the worry coiling in his spark because Wheeljack had been right next to ground zero, managed a chuckle. "Fair point." He patted First Aid on the shoulder and liberated half his armful to make it easier. "You know, you're becoming more and more fit to replace me every day."

"I'm starting to wonder if that's actually a compliment," First Aid grumbled, and there was something in his field, in his voice, which caught Ratchet's attention.

Were it not for the city-sized monster trundling their way, preparing to stomp them all to dust, Ratchet would have taken the time to poke at it. Instead, he filed it away for a later conversation.

"Do you want to take the field unit?" he asked instead.

First Aid shook his head. "You're worried about Wheeljack. I'll handle things here." He tipped his head toward the door where a familiar Neutral had just arrived, a medkit in each hand. "I've got Ambulon to help."

"And a dozen other medics, too. The goal is to withdraw mechs before anyone gets too hurt. We don't want to lose a single mech," Ratchet said as a subroutine kept a running update of new orders and deployments at the back of his processor. "I'll be running triage on site, but I'll ping you if I'm sending a worst-case your way."

First Aid nodded. "Don't worry about us. We’ve got this well in hand.”

"I know you do."

There was no one else Ratchet trusted more.

~

Madness.

Hot Rod had thought the war was a thing of terror, of madness, and he supposed he’d been right. But it was nothing compared to what they now faced. The war had been endless skirmishes, massive explosions, tiny clashes and thousands upon thousands of little missions, all tangled together.

Hot Rod had seen many battles, but he’d never seen war like this.

The air reeked of expended ammunition and scorched fluids. There was a riot of noise -- bombs and laserfire and the echoing clangs of metal impacting, the vibrating thuds of each Guardian step, the angry buzz of the Guardian’s army of mindless drones, chittering and breaking and reforming in an endless wave. Mechs shouted at each other, new soldiers arriving to take the place of those retreating when injured.

Hot Rod knew they’d made it a tactical point to lose as few as possible. The point wasn’t to throw their soldiers into the maw of the beast.

Ultra Magnus led the charge, with the Wreckers taking point, cutting a swathe through the endless army of strange metallic beasts. The massive bursts of firepower charred the air, stung Hot Rod’s sensors, but within his chassis, the Matrix fairly sang with excitement.

Bloodthirsty thing.

It was still the first opportunity Hot Rod had to try out his new frame, and the new weaponry associated with it. The moment the higher-powered blasters sprang out of his arms, he'd felt a great surge of charge throughout his sensory net, and the Matrix pulsed its approval.

Hot Rod ran central to the massive tidal wave of powerful Autobots -- and no few Decepticons who had volunteered -- and as the group drew closer to their target, Hot Rod's escort peeled off in twos and threes, until only the core of his escort remained. Jazz. Springer. Drift. Cyclonus.

One of Starscream's Seekers had pinpointed a hatch of some kind on the underside of the beast, nestled between two spiky protrusions that dripped sizzling acid on the unsuspecting assailant underfoot. And, occasionally, on its own army, not that it seemed to mind.

Hot Rod didn't have time to be afraid, though the fear kept rising up to introduce itself. Fear for himself, for his friends, for those he cared the most for.

Fear of failure.

He swallowed it down and focused.

Focused on Cyclonus and Springer leading the charge toward the hatch, peeling it open with little to no effort, and dropping down chains for the rest of them to climb. Hot Rod learning the strength of his new frame, hauling himself as Jazz scrambled ahead of him and Drift came last, hissing as the sway of the chain put him in the path of the acid drip and scored his shoulder.

"Drift?"

"I'm fine, keep going!"

Up and up they climbed, pulling themselves into a humid interior, lit with strips of dim emergency lights, the thudding-rattle of the Guardian's footsteps dulled by the mass of it. Drift closed the hatch behind them. His armor smoked and hissed, but Jazz sprayed something over it, covering the wound in a thick, spongy substance that rapidly hardened.

"Ratchet's gonna blow a gasket," Drift said with a sigh. "And so will Sunstreaker."

"At least you're alive." Jazz patted him on the uninjured shoulder. He touched his audial. "Infiltration team safe and sound, pull everyone back to defensive positions."

The Autobots and the Decepticons and the Neutrals would try to slow the Guardian, and attempt to stem the tide of its army.

"We're in some kind of manufactory," Springer said from just ahead. "Two, no, three hallways leaving out. No sign of defensive measures."

"Yet," Cyclonus affirmed from his perch a level above them, crouched on the rail of one of the catwalks like a bird of prey, his optics narrow slits of crimson. "We would be foolish to assume it does not know we are here."

Jazz keyed something into a small device and a holographic image sprang into view, painting his face in a pale blue light. "We're here," he said, pointing to a red dot on the image. He dragged his fingers through the hologram. "And Glyph thinks our best bet is here." He swirled his finger through a central area, vaguely spherical in nature.

"Honestly, we only have the vaguest idea of what we're doing. The best thing is to just keep moving forward. And stay alive," Drift said. He tossed a glance at Hot Rod, which was probably meant to be reassuring. "And keep our baby Prime here alive long enough to stop this thing."

"If we can find something I can plug into, we might be able to get more detailed schematics," Jazz said, dismissing the hologram with a flick of his fingers. "Keep an optic out for a control panel or a console or anythin'."

A rattling noise rose up around them, along with the chittering of dozens of tiny, spindly feet. The ambient emergency lights flashed from a dim yellow, to a bright orange.

The Guardian's defenses had found them.

"We need to move," Cyclonus said. "Now."

Hot Rod sighed. “Frag.”

~

The battle dragged on.

Optimus could not bring himself to leave the command center. He plugged into the main console, receiving updates as quickly as possible while he watched the moving dots and masses of the combined Cybertronian forces clashing with the Guardian and its endless army.

He was not used to inaction, or leading from behind the walls. He did not like knowing Hot Rod and a small unit were in the thick of it, while Optimus stayed behind, protected and useless. He should have insisted. He should have taken the Matrix and done this himself.

It was not right to put the burden on Hot Rod.

"All non-combatants evacuated," Flare said in Optimus' periphery, and Red Alert's vocals, even if it was not Red Alert, were a small comfort. "Remaining shuttles on standby to evacuate combatants as needed."

"Shut down the space bridges. Power them down completely. We need to conserve what energon we have left for the return trips," Xaaron said.

"Yes, sir."

"Hot Rod's team has been safely deployed," Ultra Magnus reported. "All we can do now is wait and hope."

More reports rose and fell in the background, though Optimus half-listened for any key words or phrases which might need his immediate attention. Grimlock and Starscream were on the frontlines, managing their ground and aerial forces and the attempts to slow the Guardian down. Optimus and Xaaron were charged with evacuations of the civilian population, and a second line of defense were the worst to happen.

"Optimus."

Soundwave's voice sent a wave of comfort through Optimus. He inclined his head to acknowledge his partner, and soaked up the heat of Soundwave's nearness.

"You have news?" he asked.

A gentle touch to his elbow preceded the offer of a cube of energon. Optimus managed a smile, affection flooding through him, chasing away the chill of anxiety.

"You always know what I need," he murmured as he took the warmed cube, quite sure it was spiced and flavored to his preferences.

"Optimus easy to read," Soundwave said as Laserbeak fluttered from his shoulder to Optimus', tucking in against his neck and nuzzling him. Soundwave was not one for public displays, but his field layered over Optimus' in warmly. "Feels guilty."

Optimus ex-vented and sipped from the cube to gather his thoughts. "As much as I want to retire and live a life of peace, a part of me feels the burden should have been mine," he murmured, too quiet for anyone but Soundwave to hear.

“Fought more than enough,” Soundwave said, and Laserbeak nuzzled Optimus as though to make up for the fact Soundwave could not. “Rest is earned.”

Optimus stared hard at the screen as more reports filtered in, lists of the wounded, supplies, ground covered and lost, and a steady blinking light that was Hot Rod’s team’s position, updated every time they checked in.

“It can only be earned once this threat has passed,” Optimus said with a set jaw. He finished off his energon and tucked the empty cube into his subspace. He gave Soundwave a warm look and murmured, “Thank you.”

It spoke more than he could at the moment. Luckily, Soundwave had come to understand him. HIs field nudged Optimus’, warm with support, before both of their attention -- and their hope -- refocused on the screen.

~

The Guardian’s inner defenses were as sturdy as the outer army. As many as they smashed, more filled in to take thier place, reforming as quickly as they were shattered and destroyed.

It became more prudent to run, smashing through the defenses without taking the time to stand their ground. It felt like fleeing a tsunami of chittering, clattering, teeth and talons and slicing limbs and mouths like giant scraplets.

They stumbled on a console, and Jazz jacked in, downloading as quickly as possible while Springer and Hot Rod unloaded on the defenses, and Drift and Cyclonus sliced them into bits, all four of them tossing out grenades whenever possible.

"Got it!" Jazz said, snatching his cable free from the console, whipping around to fire a blaster at an enemy leaping at him from the shadows. The core of it exploded into fiery sparks, but they all knew it would reform quickly enough. "Come on, out the south door!"

They obeyed.

Hot Rod was exhausted. His chronometer said they'd been fighting for an hour, but it felt like longer. He'd been in war, he'd been in battle, but not like this. Never this extended running and fighting, without a chance to rest or catch his breath or his thoughts.

Springer was limping, and Cyclonus had a gouge across the chassis. Drift's armor still occasionally smoked from the acid. Jazz's visor flickered from a hard blow he'd taken. Only Hot Rod was unscathed, and he felt it like a shame, deep in his spark.

"We're close," Jazz said, sliding to take point, jostling Springer out of the way, a map springing to life on one wrist, zooming and spinning and charting a course for them. He looked up, caught Hot Rod's optic. "This thing is semi-sentient, Rodders. You might have a fight on your hands."

He was ready for it. He wanted to fight.

Though he reconsidered that thought when -- fifteen minutes or so later -- they burst into a smaller room, the humidity in here thick and unpleasant, making it harder to drag in a vent. The air had a scent to it, like charred energon and ozone, and it was painfully bright.

Open space greeted them with a massive tangle of cables writhing across the ceiling above their heads, and on the far end, what could only be described as a throne, equally choked in cables. Some kind of helmet dangled over the top of it, like it was meant to be placed on someone's head, and there were half-circle doors to either side of it, large enough to enclose the whole thing.

The Matrix pulsed, and Hot Rod lurched forward like someone had taken control of his limbs. He dug in his heels, snagged the nearest arm -- which happened to be Cyclonus' -- and held tight.

"This is it," Jazz said as he dragged something heavy in front of the door. There didn't seem to be any other exits.

Drift moved to help him, yanking another console out of the wall to pile it in front of the door. "What now?"

Hot Rod realized he was shaking in the same moment Cyclonus looked at him. "You already know," Cyclonus said.

The Matrix all but writhed in his chassis, tugging him toward the throne-like chair, and the waiting cables and sockets and plugs. He had to connect himself to that thing. He had to go inside it and... and do something.

"I don't want to go in there," Hot Rod said, and hated that he'd said it aloud. The more he looked, the more the throne looked like something which would swallow him and keep him forever.

"But you must," Cyclonus said, his tone grave but understanding. "It is why we are here, Rodimus Prime."

He flinched.

"I hate that name," Hot Rod said, but he forced himself to stand upright, to uncurl his fingers from Cyclonus' arm, to take a step forward. And then another, and another, until he stood right in front of the throne -- control chair -- and stared.

"This isn't going to hold them forever," Springer was saying, and Hot Rod looked over his shoulder, where they'd piled as much as they could in front of the door, and started creating barricades to hide behind.

"It only has to hold long enough for Roddy to do his thing," Drift said.

And then Jazz turned and caught Hot Rod's gaze.

Hot Rod didn't know if Jazz let him see it, or if the Matrix stirring had made him more perceptive, or maybe it was some combination of both, but for the first time, he saw fear in Jazz's gaze. Not fear for himself necessarily, but fear for Hot Rod, and fear for the thing they had between them.

"I'll try to be quick," Hot Rod said and he turned back to the throne, trying to calm his ventilations through the mix of determination and panic crowding around his spark, while the Matrix jostled and twitched and sent little surges of charge through his sensory net.

Hot Rod climbed up into the chair and sat, his frame perfectly fitting into the molded dimensions of it. No sooner had he settled his weight than the cables reacted, snaking around his frame, their connective ends finding his various medical ports and spitting out licks of charge until his ports opened to accept them.

Hot Rod shuddered as the cold slice of the not-quite-sentience of the Guardian hovered at his firewalls. It didn't batter them, but it waited. Patiently? Respectfully? He wasn't sure.

"I don't like this," Jazz said, because Hot Rod blinked and he was there, standing in front of Hot Rod, close enough to touch, his hands resting on Hot Rod's wrists where his arms fitted perfectly into the control chair. "It looks like it's going to keep ya."

"Maybe it will. Maybe that's how I stop it," Hot Rod said, and flinched as another cable sank into his cephalic port with little preamble, sending a jolt through his entire frame. His spinal strut quivered from the abrupt charge.

Jazz's visor flashed. "That's unacceptable," he said, and his fingers curled in, digging under Rodimus' wrists, pressing at the sensitive understructures where his armor gapped for better motion. "You're not leavin' me."

Hot Rod chuckled, though his vision was starting to swim, and there was a seeping cold emanating from every cable connected to him. "Thought you were the one leaving me."

Jazz looked pained, and apologetic, and full of regret. "That was a mistake. I make a lot of those. But you're not allowed to die. You hear me? You're coming back to us."

"Sir, yes, sir," Hot Rod said, and was alarmed by how much static came out of his voice. Even more alarmed when manacles slid around his wrists and ankles, locking him into place, forcing Jazz to let go. "Don't worry. I don't have a death wish."

He really, really didn't.

"Good."

Jazz kissed him, and a new wave of electricity passed through Hot Rod, though it had nothing to do with the control chair. It felt different this time, like Jazz wasn't holding anything back, and the way he cupped Hot Rod's jaw suggested tenderness and care and feelings he always said he didn't have.

"You're coming back," he said, firm, as if Hot Rod had no choice about it, pressing their foreheads together as though he could will the statement into truth.

A creak and groan preceded the lowering of the helmet and the slow swivel inward of the enclosing arms of the throne.

"I promise," Hot Rod said.

Jazz pulled away from him, offering one last look before he slid out the doors, barely skimming between them.

Then it was dark.

***


	9. Chapter 9

Surrounded by darkness, the helmet came down.  
  
Two more cables snaked against his sides, under his armor, sinking into the ports nearest to his spark, and the Matrix gave a sharp, charged pulse that made Hot Rod jerk. Lights danced in his optics.  
  
It was oddly quiet, and the sounds of his own frame were too loud compared to the muffled noises from beyond the enclosure. The cable in his cephalic port pulsed and Hot Rod jerked as he awareness drew sharply inward, away from his body, into the nothing-space that was the digital universe.  
  
He stood in a very familiar place, a room which could be a complete copy of where he'd received the Matrix the first time, save that the colors of the lights were a dull orange and yellow opposed to the bright blue and white. The spherical object in front of him had far less facets but color played across the surface of it, entwining with arcs of charge which crackled and spat.  
  
WHO ARE YOU?  
  
The sound came from nowhere and everywhere, like a chorus of voices had spoken in perfect unison, simultaneously high-pitched and low-pitched and everything in between.  
  
Hot Rod startled and turned in low circles, seeking the speaker, but he was surrounded by cold darkness, save for the glimmering sphere.  
  
"Are you the guardian?" Hot Rod asked.  
  
WHO ARE YOU?  
  
"Well, someone's only in the business of asking questions," Hot Rod muttered, but he squared his shoulders. "I am Ho-- Rodimus Prime, according to Primus. But I used to be Hot Rod of Nyon. Or maybe I'm both. I honestly don't know."  
  
His face flamed with embarrassment. So much for making a good first impression.  
  
"Anyway, it doesn't matter. Primus gave me the Matrix, which means I'm acting in his stead, and you need to stand down. There's no danger here," Hot Rod added, trying to project every thing he knew about confidence, and all he'd learned about leadership.  
  
Silence.  
  
The world rumbled around him, a long, tedious hum. The Matrix twitched in his chassis, as though restless, but didn't offer any guidance. It was about as useful as a lump of coal.  
  
ARE YOU WORTHY?  
  
"What kind of fragging question is that? How should I know?" Hot Rod demanded, frustration making his engine rev. "I'm not the one who picked me."  
  
The world rumbled again, and the spherical object flashed a kaleidoscope of reddish colors. It stopped spinning, and like before, something opened up in it, but it was a small port, like he was meant to cable up to it.  
  
Ugh.  
  
PROVE YOUR WORTH.  
  
The Matrix surged in his chassis, toward the spherical thing, and Hot Rod stumbled along with it. Two cables snaked from his chassis from either side, two he didn't recognize, and suspected they were a result of his recent frame change. The plugs at the end were unfamiliar, but they fairly sparked with charge.  
  
Hot Rod didn't have to guide them to the port. They found their own way, sinking in with faint clicking sounds. There was a pulling sensation, like it was dragging him inward, and though he didn't move, he felt as though his sense of self had spooled down into a tiny thread, feeding the inner workings of whatever this thing was.  
  
He saw Nyon.  
  
Not with his optics, but rising at the back of his mind like a memory, images flashing by in a flicker, moving from one to the next. Friends. Neighbor. Fellow soldiers. Batchmates. He saw himself, learning and training.  
  
Nyon was a colony and it was a hard life, scouring the planet for energon deposits, for minerals and metal deposits, dealing with the occasional sandstorm or incursion from curious alien lifeforms, but it was the only life Hot Rod had known.  
  
He'd loved Nyon. He'd dreamed of daring adventures and leaving the colony one day to explore the universe, but he'd always wanted Nyon to be a place he could come back to.  
  
Until the war came to Nyon, Autobots and Decepticons jostling for control of various supply chains, and while Nyon was a hard life, they were rich in a very specific metal needed for ammunition. Something both the Autobots and the Decepticons wanted.  
  
Hot Rod hadn't known about the thing under their colony. He didn't think anyone knew about the massive mechanism the Senate had left underground, a weapon they kept on the off-chance they might need it someday.  
  
He hadn't known about the laboratory where all manner of gruesome experiments were being carried out. How it had held a branch of The Institute. How the rich mineral veins had made Nyon ripe for experimentation, and how a colony of miners were considered expendable for the greater good.  
  
Hot Rod hadn't known about any of it, until the laboratory disgorged its abominations into the streets, until the massive thing rose along with it, snatching up Nyon's residents and feeding them into its grinder belly. A shuttle had landed nearby, equipped with a massive tractor beam -- probably the Senate intended to take their weapon to the frontlines once it was done feeding, set it loose upon the Decepticons.  
  
Hot Rod had made a choice.  
  
He was a colony mech. He wasn't invested in either side of the war. He didn't care this was meant to kill Decepticons. He only cared that it was swallowing his hometown to do it.  
  
He didn't know how to take it down or deprogram it. He only knew where the miners stored their explosives, and he remembered too many lessons at Acme's feet as he explained how they worked.  
  
He couldn't save his hometown. But he could make sure the Senate couldn't use them any longer.  
  
Hot Rod jerked out of the memories with a gasp, knees buckling, and would have fallen to them if the Matrix hadn't pulsed and kept him upright, like a puppet. Shame and guilt fell over him like a dark shroud.  
  
"Is that what you wanted?" he demanded, his voice thick with static, and he curled his fingers around his dorsal cables, tried to pull them free. His hands shook, and his cables stayed connected, sparks of charge spitting along their ends.  
  
He gritted his denta as the charge snapped at his hands, bit at his fingers, sending bursts of pain through his sensory net. His spark flared with pain, weakness stealing over him. He felt... drained for lack of a better word, like the Guardian was feeding off of him.  
  
PROVE YOUR WORTH.  
  
Another sharp tug threw Hot Rod into his memories again, the war flashing by, himself aboard the Xantium after being found by the Wreckers, drawn by the odd radiation readings the massive explosion had thrown into space. They'd found maybe a dozen survivors, including Hot Rod, and most had staggered on to the main Autobot fleet. A few vanished.  
  
Hot Rod saw them on the battlefield later, Decepticon brands stained purple on their chassis.  
  
Dealer called him a murderer and tried to kill him. Would have succeeded if not for Springer, leaping out of nowhere to strike him. He'd shaken Hot Rod, told him the battlefield was no place to feel guilty, and the guilt grew heavier, because now he'd risked Springer's life as well.  
  
The war dragged on.  
  
Hot Rod fought, and he bled, and he killed, and he suffered. Small skirmishes, mainly, because that was what Wreckers were for. He learned as much as he could, until he was glad the war split itself into the guerrilla tactics it did, because he was starting to wonder which side was in the right anymore.  
  
And then coming back to Cybertron, and facing the reality of what the Decepticons were, seeing the transmissions of what they'd done to the Autobots, and feeling ashamed for doubting the rightness of the Autobot cause. He hadn't known the Decepticons were capable of such things. He hadn't wanted to know.  
  
Hot Rod groaned, feeling sick to his tanks, yanked out of the memories as if thrown from a current. He wobbled and grabbed onto the module to stay upright, while the Matrix pulsed angrily in his chassis as if chastising him.  
  
"I don't know what you want from me," Hot Rod hissed, thoughts spinning, energy levels reading thirty percent.  
  
He'd been at eighty when he sat in the chair.  
  
PROVE YOUR WORTH.  
  
Hot Rod felt the tug again, trying to drag his awareness back into the sphere, and back into some other dark and sordid memory.  
  
This time, however, Hot Rod resisted.  
  
“I’m not proving a damn thing,” Hot Rod growled, and he pulled back, mentally more than physically, resisting the pull of the sphere, its attempts to rifle through his memories and pull out his darkest moments, his worst failures, everything he hated about himself.  
  
“I didn’t ask for this,” Hot Rod snapped as his engine whined and the tug of the thing grew stronger, like it was trying to reach into his cortex and rip all of him out of his frame.  
  
“I didn’t want this,” Hot Rod snarled, and his hands balled into fists, beating on the side of the sphere, charge pulsing along his cables, hovering midway as though battling for dominance with the sphere  
  
“I don’t know what you want!” Hot Rod shouted, and the words echoed in the odd silence like they were heavier than words ought to be. He banged on the side of the sphere, dull thuds tolling like a gong.  
  
PROVE YOUR--  
  
The words cut off sharply as Hot Rod growled and focused, throwing a large pulse of charge across the connection, rejecting the demand with every fiber and plate of his being. He refused to be part of some game. He had no intention of letting himself be judged for something he hadn’t asked for.  
  
All he wanted was to turn this damn thing off and walk out of here alive, preferably into Jazz’s arms if he was lucky. He wanted another one of those kisses. He wanted an answer.  
  
He wanted this fragging Guardian to _stop_.  
  
The stench of ozone grew stronger. Lights flared and popped in loud shattering noises as the sphere wobbled where it hung, blue-white lightning flashing across the surface. The Matrix pulsed in Hot Rod’s chassis, a flash-fire heat that surged outward, spilling across his cables, slamming into the floating sphere.  
  
It stalled his vents. He wobbled where he stood, the scent of scorched metal nauseating for its thickness. The ports where he was connected grew unbearably hot, but he couldn’t remove them or trigger their release.  
  
The voice rose again, but this time, it didn’t have words. It made a sound, like an angry wail, and the entire room rattled around Hot Rod. It rumbled up through his feet and through his frame, all of the lights popping out until the only illumination came from the sphere, glowing brighter and brighter orange like it had caught fire.  
  
PROVE YOUR WORTH!  
  
It was a scream, a shouted demand, and Hot Rod nearly fell for it. He almost dropped down, the urge to beg for forgiveness rising up in him, until his anger burned it away.  
  
"Frag you!" Hot Rod snarled. He slammed his fists into the sphere and sent a surge of charge along the lines, the Matrix abruptly pulsing in the same moment, throwing out a wave of blue-white electric fire.  
  
It poured into the sphere, and the world flashed stark orange-red around Hot Rod. The air reeked of ozone and charred energon and weldfire. A piercing scream made his audials ring, and the world around him rumbled and tossed like a mighty quake.  
  
And then it all went dark.  
  


~

  
  
The roar was organic to the core, so loud and echoing it made everything rattle, and his audials ring. Grimlock flinched and resisted the urge to cower and cover his audials. The massive Guardian went still, its many limbs shivering as that unearthly sound split the air, several Seekers wobbling mid-flight.  
  
Arcs of electricity hissed and spat as they crawled over the Guardian's form. Beneath it, the multitudes of its army went still as well, their head-like appendages craning upward toward their master.  
  
The combined forces of the Cybertronian army was not made of fools. They took their advantage, striking down every enemy around them, and for once, they did not immediately reform into new foes.  
  
A Seeker broke from the ranks, spiraling in the air before it spun and transformed, landing with an elegant thud next to Grimlock. Starscream grinned at him, optics alight, his armor scorched from catching a few stray laserbeams.  
  
"I don't know what that primeling did, but I think it worked," Starscream said as the Guardian keened and twitched.  
  
"We hope," Grimlock grunted.  
  
It certainly seemed to be true.  
  
The army had frozen in place and were rapidly being destroyed, crumbling to pieces and dust where they were pummeled or shot or blown up. The massive Guardian shuddered as if something were tearing it apart from the inside. Those crackles of charge grew larger and brighter, and it kept making that horrible, keening sound.  
  
It jerked, which on a thing that massive seemed like an attack, the hundreds of protrusions flicking like sensory horns. The ground trembled up through Grimlock's feet. The air took on the stench of ozone, like the air before a lightning storm, and a thin, sour note of decaying Cybertronian fluids.  
  
"Any word from the inside team?" Grimlock asked.  
  
"Not that I'm getting," Starscream answered. He frowned, optics darkening, orbital ridge drawing down. "It's just confusion."  
  
A loud crack pierced the keening. Grimlock looked around, but Starscream grabbed his arm and pointed, "There!"  
  
He saw it then, the large crack ripping through the main torso of the Guardian. It spread along in a jagged line, a gaping wound that then splintered off in a web. More cracking echoed, and Grimlock couldn't find all of the places the Guardian was evidently splitting apart, its biolights pulsing one last time before going dim.  
  
The keening stopped.  
  
"Is that a good sign?" Starscream asked.  
  
The Guardian shuddered. The cracks spread further and further, starting to meet and grow, intersect, deepen.  
  
Grimlock realized what was going to happen mere seconds before one of the protrusions broke off and crashed to the ground, narrowly missing a pair of soldiers dragging away a wounded third.  
  
"Retreat!" Grimlock shouted, into the air and across the comms. "It's collapsing! Fall back!"  
  
Others took up the shouting and the Cybertronian army started to flee, scattering in all directions away from the bulk of the Guardian, which was indeed collapsing into large shambling pieces of greying metal.  
  
Rodimus had come through for them.  
  
Grimlock hoped the team had gotten out in time.  
  


~

  
  
Jazz knew the moment Hot Rod had done something, because the insistent press of the Guardian's internal defenses abruptly stopped. The ones they had destroyed remained smoking frames. They did not get back up.  
  
It was a relief, because Jazz was starting to run low on ammunition, and he knew the others were, too. They were tired, dented, scraped, sore.  
  
The lights in the control room started to pulse in an eerie tandem. Hot Rod wasn't visible behind the enclosure, but it emanated a bitter cold, and then the smell started, the acrid, ozone, rotting fluids smell.  
  
Springer gagged, and Jazz almost teased him, until he muttered the words, "Garrus 9," and turned away, Drift murmuring something to him.  
  
Jazz knew enough about Garrus 9 to drop it.  
  
He let the others keep an optic on the invading hordes. Jazz turned his own attention to the freezing capsule keeping Hot Rod from him. The lights dimmed to nothing, until the control room was lit only by their own biolights, and the handful of glowsticks Drift tumbled across the floor.  
  
Jazz pressed a hand to the capsule, and it thrummed beneath his palm, ice cold, instantly numbing his haptic sensors. Small bits of charge arced out from the seam like it was tasting the air. It was quiet in the room, too quiet, the ambient noise of the Guardian in full function fading away to nothing.  
  
"Is it over?" Drift’s voice echoed hollowly in the silence.  
  
The whole room shuddered and lurched. Jazz had to grab the capsule to keep his balance. A loud crack echoed dully through the walls, and the rumbling intensified.  
  
"Is that a good sign or a bad sign?" Springer demanded as a rattling noise suddenly rose from within the capsule.  
  
It sounded like a struggle.  
  
"Roddy?" Jazz called out, palming the exterior of the console, looking for some kind of handle or hatch or any way to get it open.  
  
The rattling intensified, but it was almost drowned out by the shaking and rumbling of the room around them. Furniture started to topple. It got harder to stand.  
  
Jazz's spark strobed with fear.  
  
"Help me get him out of there!" he demanded, trying to pry his fingers into the seam. What he wouldn't give for a crow bar right about now. He whipped out a vibroblade, sliding into the seam, twisting and putting pressure on it.  
  
"We don't know if it's time," Springer said, but his voice sounded vaguely panicked, and he hissed when he touched the ice-cold of the console.  
  
"It's time," Cyclonus said. "We have to hurry. The Guardian is falling apart."  
  
"Then fragging help me!" Jazz snarled as the blade of his vibroknife snapped in the seam, shattering into two useless pieces on the floor. He growled and beat at the exterior of the capsule. "Give him back!"  
  
He scanned the room as Springer elbowed him aside, shoving his thick fingers into the seam and attempting to pull. Cyclonus joined him, on the opposite side, and their cables creaked as they strained to yank it open.  
  
There was no other console, no other way Jazz could see to speak to this thing or command it open. Force was their only option.  
  
"We have to blow it," Jazz said as Cyclonus and Springer pulled but the capsule wouldn't budge.  
  
"It'll hurt him, too," Springer snapped, optics flashing. "I didn't know you were that much of an idiot."  
  
A sharp crack split their argument, running through the wall of the room.  
  
"He's right," Drift said, as Jazz tumbled a few localized charges out of his subspace and slammed them against the seam of the capsule.  
  
“We don't have time to argue," Jazz snapped and ducked down, activating the remote trigger for the bombs.  
  
Truncated curses erupted around the room as the localized explosions sounded off, adding more smoke and discharge. Jazz coughed, waving away the haze, and his spark sank into his feet.  
  
The pod was blackened with soot, but otherwise unharmed.  
  
"Damn it!" Jazz snarled and banged his fists on it, harder and harder. "Give him back, damn you! Let him go!"  
  
"Move!" Drift barked, and Jazz leapt aside a mere second before the former Decepticon shoved his sword into the pod, right along the central seam, the jewel in the hilt glowing fiercely.  
  
It parted the metal as if it were nothing more than liquid, curling back from the sword. Drift panted for ventilations, looking pale, but he twisted the blade, ripping into the metal like a mech possessed.  
  
"Help him!" Jazz shouted as he shoved his fingers into the jagged edges, pulling back, his derma screaming at the ice-cold/burning-heat of it.  
  
Purple claws sank into the seams above him, Cyclonus yanking with all his might, as Springer gripped on the other side, locking his knees and pulling. There was a horrendous screech of resisting metal as they peeled it back, just enough for Jazz to wriggle inside, his spark squeezing at the sight of Hot Rod slumped in the chair.  
  
He was alive. Thank Primus.  
  
Jazz didn't have time to debate consequences. He grabbed fistfuls of cables and detached them while the others continued to wreak havoc on the pod, making more space to get the larger Prime out.  
  
"Hurry!" Springer snarled.  
  
Jazz left the helmet for last, taking greater care to disengage the cephalic port cable. It released Hot Rod steadily enough, and started to wilt like a dying flower when it disengaged. In fact, all of the cables lay limp and lifeless while the internals of the pod rapidly grayed and rusted, as if the guardian was dying.  
  
Hot Rod hadn't just stopped it; he'd deactivated it.  
  
"Primus, you're amazing," Jazz murmured as he got an armful of his Prime and started to pull him out of the throne. "And I'm gonna tell ya that as soon as ya wake up. And you'd better wake up."  
  
Hot Rod said nothing, but his frame hummed, and his chassis vibrated, and he was warm to the touch. He was alive. He'd better stay that way.  
  
Hands grabbed hold, pulling them out.  
  
Chaos took over. The guardian was collapsing around them, disintegrating, falling apart. There were no more enemies to fight, but it had one last card to play, and if they didn't hurry, it would take them down with it.  
  
"Time to go!" Springer barked, and this time Jazz didn't argue when he scooped Hot Rod up into his arms and took off.  
  
Drift, exhausted, leaned heavily on Cyclonus. Jazz led the way, following a map which was rapidly becoming useless.  
  
They were going to make it.  
  
They had to.  
  


~

  
  
The guardian crumbled.  
  
Its minions did not.  
  
But at least now, when they were blasted or sliced or blown apart, they stayed that way. The tide of battle turned in their favor. An end remained in sight.  
  
For the first time, Optimus felt he could ventilate, despite the silence from their infiltration team.  
  
"Still nothing?" he asked Soundwave.  
  
His lover's dock popped open, Buzzsaw emerging to alit on Soundwave's shoulder. There was a moment of brief conversation before Buzzsaw took off again, this time at a high rate of speed.  
  
"Communication difficult," Soundwave said. "Buzzsaw to search."  
  
"The guardian continues to disintegrate," Flare reported, as the screens flashed in front of his optics at a rate only Red Alert could have parsed.  
  
Optimus rubbed at his chassis, the mounts aching as if in sympathy with whatever Hot Rod had endured within the guardian. His weakness had gone away since he first encountered the new Matrix weeks ago, but the ache lingered. He supposed he'd never be rid of it.  
  
"Contact Earth," Optimus said. "Bring back the evacuees. Let Cybertron know it's safe again."  
  
"Yes, sir," said Mainframe. If he was at all upset he'd been shoved aside to the secondary position by Flare, it didn't show. If anything, he seemed to relish it.  
  
Flare was not Red Alert, but it was painfully hard to remember that when he sat in the chair Red Alert would have claimed, filling a position which had always belonged to Red Alert. There were some truths which ran spark-deep, Optimus realized, and Red Alert or Flare or whoever he’d shaped himself to be was sparked to protect.  
  
More reports streamed in.  
  
The guardian’s army crumbled and turned to dust. The guardian itself continued to wither, ashes floating away on a wind, silence falling on the battlefield. The medical center was stuffed to the brim with the injured, but so far, there were no fatalities.  
  
They’d done well to protect their people.  
  
Was it luck? Was it fate?  
  
They had Hot Rod to thank.  
  
Seekers flew over the disintegrating Guardian, broadcasting video, and Soundwave monitored Buzzsaw. They all searched for some sign their infiltration team had survived.  
  
Optimus scanned the images.  
  
Wait.  
  
He surged forward, gaze locked on the screen. “Flare, bring up the Tetra quadrant again. Zoom, two hundred percent.”  
  
Flare obeyed. The image focused on what would be the guardian’s left flank, if Optimus could assign such a description to a dangerous mass without true shape. One of the digitigrade limbs had crumbled already, and the body itself sagged toward the ground. There was a flash of metal -- green, bright green and yellow.  
  
Then a heli burst upward from the decaying form, rotors spraying bits of ashy residue in all directions, and in its wake came a purple spacecraft, sleek and covered in battle scars with a white and red mech dangling from the underside.  
  
“Transmission received,” Soundwave said as relief tumbled through Optimus all at once, his shoulders sagging, joy licking across his face. “Infiltration team all present and accounted for.”  
  
“Hot Rod?” Optimus asked as Laserbeak nuzzled him and chirred in his ear, making a pleased sound.  
  
“Unconscious but alive,” Soundwave said, and Optimus sank back into his chair, straining the cables attaching him to the console, but not pulling them loose.  
  
His knees wobbled. He whispered a prayer to Primus while rubbing at his chassis, guilt giving way to relief.  
  
He hadn’t gotten Hot Rod killed.  
  
“I’ll meet them in the medbay,” Optimus said as he finally regained control of himself. He started to disengage the many cables, tucking them away, the ache in his chassis beginning to to ease. “Soundwave, keep me apprised of the situation.”  
  
Hot Rod had survived. Cybertron was safe. The first test of the United Cybertron had been a complete and utter success.  
  
Optimus couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so proud.  
  


~

  
  
Hot Rod had a private room.  
  
It made sense. He was a Prime now, and more than a few mechs wanted to gawk at their new Prime, their new hero, the mech who had put himself in the line of fire to protect them. Autobots and Neutrals and Decepticons alike just wanted a peek at the colony mech turned Prime.  
  
There were so many gifts piled outside of his recovery room, Ratchet had hired someone to box them up and take them to Hot Rod’s suite. He was tired of wading through them.  
  
No one, however, disturbed Hot Rod without Ratchet’s permission. No one crossed Ratchet. So for now, it was quiet and dim, with only the hushed steady drone of the spark monitor.  
  
Just a precaution, Ratchet said. He had no reason to believe Hot Rod wasn’t going to wake up, or that he was in any physical danger. It was just like any other time Optimus had over-extended himself with some special Prime thing.  
  
Hot Rod would be fine.  
  
Jazz wanted to believe him.  
  
He had the utmost faith in Ratchet. It was purely for his own peace of mind that he’d taken up vigil here, one hand clasped between his, a hand much larger than he was used to, attached to a frame far larger than he was used to, but the spark within it all still the same.  
  
Hot Rod was still Hot Rod, behind the Matrix and the upgrades and the responsibility. He was still the mech who had so effortlessly captured Jazz’s spark, despite his best efforts to build a shield around it.  
  
Falling in love with Hot Rod was the easiest part. Letting himself pursue that love, well, it was a different story.  
  
Jazz bent his head, pressed Hot Rod’s knuckles to his forehead, clutched Hot Rod’s hand between his. He offlined his visor. He cursed at Primus, whom he never put much faith in regardless, for daring to put Hot Rod in his path, then giving him a Matrix.  
  
“Guess I’m just cursed, eh, Rodders?” Jazz murmured, though he knew Hot Rod couldn’t hear him. “Or maybe I just have a type, yeah? Mechs way, way out of my league.”  
  
He chuckled. There wasn’t any humor in it.  
  
He brushed his lips over Hot Rod’s knuckles. A promise had been made, but Jazz knew how much a promise mattered in the thick of war, of battle. A promise was a promise, until the bullet careened across the smoke and din, and you never saw the broken promise coming for you.  
  
Jazz cycled a shaking ventilation.  
  
It was easy to tell himself to give something up, when he thought that something was always going to be there. Was going to be happy and content without him. Look at Optimus! All paired up with Soundwave and happy as a clam. Jazz walking away was probably the best thing that could have happened to him.  
  
Stood to reason it would be the same for Hot Rod, right?  
  
Right.  
  
Jazz worked his intake.  
  
“I’m the one who’s supposed to run away, not you,” Jazz murmured. “You gotta stay because these mechs need ya. You’re a hero, Rodders. I told ya, didn’t I? Knew ya had it in ya.”  
  
Even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t what Hot Rod wanted to hear. He hadn’t done what he did to be called a hero. He did it because it had to be done, and apparently, he was the only one who could do it.  
  
Hot Rod was many things, but a coward had never been one of them. Not like Jazz.  
  
He sighed and hung his head, thumbs scrubbing gently over Hot Rod’s hand, careful not to wake him. He needed his recharge. Needed to rest and recover.  
  
“I was wrong,” Jazz whispered. “I shouldn’t have left. Should’ve had a conversation like real mechs do. I’m just… not good at that part, Roddy. You know that. I can pretend, but I’m not good at being real.”  
  
Jazz gnawed on the inside of his cheek. He counted the steady drone of the spark monitor. He counted Hot Rod’s steady ventilations. He listened to the quiet hum of Hot Rod’s frame, and he tasted in Hot Rod’s field, the second field of the Matrix. A bit different than when Optimus carried it, but painfully familiar.  
  
“I want to be real,” Jazz said. “With you.”  
  
It hurt. Like someone had punched him right in the spark. It would only hurt worse if Hot Rod had actually heard him. Like tearing open an old wound and bleeding energon all over the floor, ripping apart a weld, his insides spilling out on the floor.  
  
Not romantic in retrospect, but accurate.  
  
Hot Rod had insinuated himself so firmly into Jazz’s spark without having to do a damn thing, and it wasn’t fair.  
  
The only thing worse than walking away, was losing Hot Rod completely, and Jazz couldn’t be that coward anymore. He couldn’t.  
  
“I’ll be here when you wake up this time,” Jazz promised.  
  
They weren’t on the battlefield. He hoped it would be a lot easier to keep this promise.  
  


***


	10. Chapter 10

It had become a habit.  
  
Every morning, upon waking, once he’d managed to drag himself out of the berth and Grimlock’s cuddling embrace, Starscream pulled out the scanner he’d nicked from the medbay and gave it a pass over his frame. He didn’t know if it was truly capable of reading a successful sparking, but he’d calibrated it as best he could based on the data Glyph had supplied and all of the anecdotes they’d recovered.  
  
This morning was no exception.  
  
Starscream onlined, extricated himself from Grimlock's arms despite his every desire to remain there, and went into the sitting room. He grabbed a cube of energon and the scanner, and waited for the results.  
  
He reviewed his schedule for the day. A meeting with Shockwave, where he was no doubt going to remind the scientist he lived only on the whims of their commander. An appointment with Knock Out to discuss the potential of a new paint job. Flying with his trine with possibly Swoop to join.  
  
He had a busy day ahead of him.  
  
The scanner beeped.  
  
Starscream cycled his optics, cube pausing halfway to his mouth, as the device spat numerous results at him, all vastly different than what they’d been yesterday morning.  
  
Nanite activity: elevated.  
  
Core temperature: elevated.  
  
Spark revolutions: increased.  
  
Secondary spark frequency detected.  
  
It was the latter which changed everything. The first three could be illness, a fault in his coding, something a medic could easily fix. The last, however.  
  
The last was significant.  
  
Starscream put down the cube and picked up the scanner, staring at the screen. _Secondary spark frequency detected._  
  
They’d sparked.  
  
For a moment, Starscream stared in a stunned silence, his free hand touching his midsection, where he knew the small tank lay nestled beneath his spark chamber. If this scanner was accurate -- and it should be, he’d calibrated it himself -- then they’d sparked.  
  
They’d sparked!  
  
Starscream tumbled the scanner aside and burst into the berthroom. “Grimlock! We sparked!” he announced, unable to disguise the glee in his voice. As far as he knew, this made them the first.  
  
Grimlock lurched awake, visor flickering, the cannons in his arms cycling up with a loud whine. “What?”  
  
“Power down, you big oaf. We’re not in danger, we’re sparked,” Starscream said as he climbed onto the berth and into his mate’s lap, planting a string of kisses over Grimlock’s mask. “I’m carrying.”  
  
Burly arms came around him as if on automatic, though Grimlock’s field remained a befuddled mess. At least his defense protocols cycled down, the blasters tucking back into his arms.  
  
“We did it?” Grimlock asked, head tilting down to press his forehead to Starscream’s.  
  
“I’m sure we’d need a medic to confirm, but if you trust my scientific acumen at all, then yes. We did,” Starscream said and planted another kiss on Grimlock’s mask, his wings flicking up and down.  
  
Grimlock vented quietly. “We’re the first,” he said.  
  
“Damn right we are.” Starscream grinned and rested his hand over his mid-section again. “Who knows what the sparkling is going to turn out to be.”  
  
“I’ll love them regardless,” Grimlock said, his fingers stroking Starscream’s back and armor in gentle sweeps.  
  
Starscream sat back a little, his head tilted. “You don’t sound happy.”  
  
“I am.” Grimlock’s visor met his gaze with an unexpected intensity. “I’m also worried. We’re the first. If anything goes wrong…” He trailed off.  
  
Starscream read between the lines.  
  
He cupped Grimlock’s face and pressed their foreheads together once more. “It’s going to be fine. We’ve got the best medics on Cybertron around to make it so.”  
  
Grimlock rumbled noncommittally, his field a prickle against Starscream’s before he said, “You are my spark, and my priority. I won’t sacrifice you for this.”  
  
“You won’t have to,” Starscream murmured and some of the tension in Grimlock’s frame eased. “If it comes down to it, we’ll just have to try again.”  
  
A puff of warm ex-vent ghosted Starscream’s armor. “As long as I don’t lose you, we’ll try as many times as it takes.”  
  
“Deal.”  
  


~

  
  
Consciousness came to him in stages as he floated in a half-aware state where the Matrix purred approvingly at him.  
  
Hot Rod wasn’t sure he cared for the approval. He was more focused on the fact he was alive.  
  
Sore. Exhausted. Battered. Bruised.  
  
Alive.  
  
_We are proud of you._  
  
Hot Rod ignored the chorus of voices. He didn’t need anyone’s pride. He hadn’t done it for accolades from a collection of long-dead Primes.  
  
The scent of antiseptic and weld-fire floated to his nose, and the distinct drone of monitoring equipment echoed in his audials. He was in a medical bay which had to be a good sign, though he was probably under Ratchet’s care.  
  
Primus, he ached.  
  
Hot Rod forced his optical shutters to open, relieved that the lights were dim. He couldn’t move his left hand because Jazz was attached to it.  
  
Wait.  
  
Jazz was here?  
  
He was in recharge, vents snuffling, and Hot Rod’s spark clenched with affection. He looked as though he hadn’t done anything more than the basic patching since they’d made their escape from the Guardian. At least, Hot Rod assumed they had, and that he’d been successful.  
  
He was still here.  
  
Hope bloomed unbidden in Hot Rod’s spark, and he didn’t have the wherewithal to beat it down. Maybe they could make it work. Maybe this was a sign Jazz wanted to stay. Maybe they weren’t over.  
  
He must have moved or made some noise because Jazz stirred, coming awake in a flash, his visor online and his attention zeroing in on Hot Rod. His vents left him in a whoosh, fingers tightening in their grip.  
  
“Morning, hotshot,” Jazz murmured as he slowly sat up, rolling his neck to ease the kinks, but not releasing his grip. “Glad you’re finally awake.”  
  
“How long was I out?” Hot Rod asked, and his vocals were striped with static as if he’d swallowed rust and dust for days. “What happened?”  
  
Jazz shifted from the chair to the berth, pressed against Hot Rod’s hips, their fingers still interlaced. “Well, two days ago you stopped the Guardian and there’s nothing left but the clean-up so kudos to you, my Prime.”  
  
Hot Rod winced. “Don’t call me Prime.”  
  
“Sorry. I thought ya were ready for it.” Jazz lifted Hot Rod’s hand, brushing his lips across Hot Rod’s knuckles. “How do ya feel?”  
  
“Sore. Aching. Like I got stomped on by a Combiner.” Hot Rod paused and gave Jazz a long look. “Confused. What are you doing here?”  
  
Jazz froze. Even his vents stalled. Until they seemed to kick back in, and he lowered Hot Rod’s hand. “Do you want me to leave?”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.” Hot Rod struggled to sit up, but there were too many wires and one of the machines started honking at him, so he gave up and patted around for the berth controls until he managed to lift the head of the berth enough he no longer felt like an invalid. “I thought you didn’t want this.”  
  
Jazz ducked his head. “I guess I deserve that.” He cycled a deep ventilation, his hand squeezing Hot Rod’s. “I was wrong.”  
  
Oh, Primus.  
  
Hot Rod made himself keep his voice even, his field retracted, despite the hope threatening to rise up and fill his intake. “About which part?” he asked, and Optimus would have praised him for his restraint.  
  
“Most of it. All of it. Frag, I just wanna start over if you’ll let me.” Jazz’s glossa flicked over his lips as he ex-vented. “I don’t want the out, Rodders. I want you.”  
  
“Do you know what that’s gonna mean?” Hot Rod asked, ignoring the desperate need to pull Jazz into his arms and kiss him senseless and crow with glee. “Because I’m not satisfied pretending to be friends who frag. I want someone who’s gonna wake up with me, who’s gonna help me deal with this stupid thing in my chest, and who’s gonna let me help them, too.” He paused, drew in a shaky breath. “I want a partnership.”  
  
There was a moment of fearful silence, where Hot Rod thought he’d asked for too much, that Jazz wasn’t ready for the realities of what Hot Rod wanted.  
  
But Jazz took in a deep vent and his thumb scrubbed over Hot Rod’s palm. “If you’ll have me and all my faults, then that’s what I want too.”  
  
He sounded genuine, and the touch of his field poured sincerity.  
  
Hot Rod’s spark swelled, and he cupped Jazz’s face with his free hand, drawing him close enough to bring their lips together, relief vibrating through him like the wash of a recharge pad. There was a pulse of warmth from the Matrix, though Hot Rod didn’t care to interpret it, except maybe as a reflection of his own happiness.  
  
He pressed his forehead to Jazz’s, his optics shuttered, soaking up the tangled energies of their fields. “It should be pretty obvious by now that I want you,” Hot Rod murmured. “I know what you are, Jazz, and I want all of you. I just need you to want me, too.”  
  
“Wanting you has never been the problem, spitfire.” Jazz cupped Hot Rod’s neck, his thumb stroking a gentle path down Hot Rod’s main transmission cable. “Even monsters get a little afraid, ya know? And ya scare the pit out of me.”  
  
Hot Rod breathed a laugh. “You’re not a monster.”  
  
“Mmm. Tell that to all the mechs afraid of the dark.” Jazz shifted back, and their gazes met, the walls around Jazz’s expression crumbling bit by bit. “I know what it means to be a Prime, and what burdens you’re gonna carry. Let me shoulder them with you.”  
  
Hot Rod kissed him again. How could he not? He’d wanted to hear this for so long, and thought it would never happen. He didn’t dare push. He’d known the score.  
  
“Don’t leave again,” Hot Rod said in between kisses.  
  
“Promise,” Jazz breathed against his lips, and joy bloomed warm and tingling in Hot Rod’s spark, a wave of it spreading through his entire frame.  
  
Warmth, and maybe a tug of fatigue, too. He wanted to kiss Jazz, but gravity pulled him back to the berth, dizziness encroaching on his thoughts.  
  
“You need to rest,” Jazz said as he playfully kissed the tip of Hot Rod’s nose. “Recharge. I’ll be here.”  
  
This time, Hot Rod believed him.  
  


~

  
  
“You have my comm if you’re short-staffed, correct?” Knock Out asked as his fingers swept over the datapad, signing on every dotted line needed to release him from his service to the Decepticons.  
  
He would, by the time he stamped his glyph in the last box, officially be a Neutral, and officially free of any and all obligation to the Decepticons.  
  
“I doubt we’ll have need of it, but yes,” Flatline said with his patented bored tone, perched behind the desk which was once Knock Out’s, resembling a little bit the Combiner in a jewelry shop as he was far too large for it.  
  
The sight gave Knock Out a little laugh, though he tried to hide it. He didn’t want to burn his bridges. Escape routes had always been one of his staples. It was how he’d survived for so long.  
  
“You never know, there might be another guardian out there, or another group like the DJD,” Knock Out said as he flicked to the next box and the next box and--  
  
Sweet Primus.  
  
Did they make this unnecessarily painful on purpose? Couldn’t he just hand over his notice and let bygones be bygones? It wasn’t like he had a paycheck to forward or retirement income or he needed to hand over access codes.  
  
Did Ultra Magnus write this?  
  
“If that be the case, I am sure it will be a matter of Cybertronian pride, and we will all stand together.” Flatline pushed around a few items on Knock Out’s former desk as though their very presence offended him.  
  
Knock Out peered at his replacement over the top of the datapad. “You know, you’re rather unpleasant to be around sometimes. Maybe you should work on that.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
Knock Out rolled his optics and went back to the next checkmark. “Snarl is, of course, going with me. You’ll need to find someone else to fix your equipment or bring it to us.” He smiled, showing his denta, a smile of pride in his partner. “You know there’s no one better.”  
  
“I am aware,” Flatline said, and he ex-vented a long, aggrieved vent. “Are you going to be here much longer? I’ve a need to redecorate.”  
  
Knock Out ignored him. He peered at the datapad, tapped the stylus against the border of it, stamped his glyph in one last box, and voila.  
  
The datapad chimed cheerfully .  
  
Knock Out grinned and stood, resting said datapad on the desktop with a flourish. “Now I’m done,” he said. “Chief Medical Officer Flatline, I leave the Decepticons and all of their drama to you.”  
  
“Why do I feel like you’ve just handed me a processor ache rather than a promotion?” Flatline picked up the datapad and tucked it into an adjacent drawer.  
  
“You volunteered,” Knock Out reminded him, because Glit had the good sense to refuse before the offer came out of Knock Out’s mouth.  
  
Honestly, there was no one whinier than a Decepticon soldier, especially if said soldier needed to visit the medbay for routine maintenance. Maybe that was because Decepticon medical care had always been somewhat lacking. Maybe if Hook was your best option for a repair, that might make one a little leery.  
  
Maybe Decepticons had reason to be wary.  
  
Still. Knock Out was tired of chasing down patients, of changing filters, and berating soldiers about proper care, and he absolutely did not want to deal with the inevitable madness which would arise from this new sparking protocol. No, sir. No, thank you.  
  
“Yes, I remember,” Flatline said in a dry tone. He flicked a hand at Knock Out while he glared at the decorative figurine on the corner of his desk. “Go. Enjoy your new pursuits.”  
  
Knock Out sketched a salute that was a few shades shy of respectful and made his escape. He took the emergency rampwell down rather than the main lifts so he wouldn’t have to say goodbye or be caught by potential patients. No, he wasn’t trying to avoid nostalgia. He wouldn’t miss this facility. He was delighted to put it in his rearview mirror.  
  
In fact, he was happier still to see Iacon growing more distant behind him. The open road between it and the neutral space betwixt the three main cities felt like freedom, despite the way it bumped and spat debris at his undercarriage and coated his armor in a thin layer of dust. Both were a fair trade for the headache he left behind, and besides, he had two partners with clever fingers who would be more than willing to help him polish up.  
  
They had a home all to themselves with more space than Knock Out could ever imagine. They had a business to run -- Knock Out and Breakdown in the clinic-slash-reformatting center and Snarl with his electronics repair a floor above. They would be in high demand -- Knock Out already had clients booked for next week. There were dozens of mechs wanting a new look to reflect their new, more peaceful lives.  
  
Honestly, it was all a dream come true, a dream Knock Out had never dared imagine, until the possibility of it bloomed in front of him.  
  
Life was strange and grand, he decided. Strange and grand in all the ways that mattered most.  
  


~

  
  
“Is this acid?” Sunstreaker demanded as he pushed Drift face down into the berth and bent over his back, peering at his armor. “How in the frag did you get acid damage on your shoulder _and_ your aft, Drift?”  
  
“Blame the guardian,” he answered, voice muffled by the absurdly soft berthcovers of their absurdly large berth.  
  
“I blame you. Be faster,” Sideswipe said. He sat on Drift’s other side, absently petting Drift’s head and finials in an attempt to disguise the concern in his field.  
  
Drift fought the recharge threatening to pull him under. He’d spent hours fighting and worrying and watching Hot Rod’s aft. He wanted to sleep, but he knew better than to do so while Sunstreaker had worked himself into a righteous froth.  
  
Drift was being chastised. He had to take it like a good mech until Sunstreaker ran out of steam.  
  
“This is not an easy fix, you reckless maniac,” Sunstreaker grumbled, but his tone was affectionate as he poked and prodded and measured the damage, no doubt working on a plan of action to return Drift to his normal spit and polish.  
  
“I’m reckless?” Drift echoed, and wow, wasn’t that a turn of events? “I think that’s a bit hypocritical of the both of you.”  
  
“We have each other to watch our backs,” Sideswipe said with a playful pinch to Drift’s finial before he continued petting. “It’s different.”  
  
“You should’ve fought alongside us,” Sunstreaker huffed. “That was where you belonged.” He hadn’t been happy when Drift volunteered to accompany Hot Rod, even if both of them had understood.  
  
They, after all, had stationed themselves right next to Ratchet’s triage center, ready to rip and tear any threat which might wander near their favorite medic.  
  
Drift hummed and touched them both with his field, speaking of warmth and affection and apology. “I wanted to do my part. Surely you don’t fault me for that.”  
  
“You’re too damned noble,” Sunstreaker muttered.  
  
“We kind of love you for that,” Sideswipe said. “Besides, if you had been with us, then you’d have just been more competition. As it is, I killed way more of those things than Sunny did.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s engine revved. “You did not.”  
  
“Didn’t I?” Sideswipe’s tone was both cheeky and challenging. “I distinctly remember my count being higher than yours.”  
  
“They kept regenerating! It doesn’t count if you keep destroying the same one over and over again. That’s cheating!”  
  
“They were still trying to kill me. It counts!”  
  
Drift grinned and rested his chin on his folded hands, listening to them bicker while Sunstreaker methodically fixed his armor and Sideswipe helped whenever he needed.  
  
He loved these two idiots. With every strut in his frame, and every beat in his spark.  
  


~

  
  
Jazz’s armor prickled.  
  
His arms were full. There was a vibroblade tucked under several armor panels within reach. He didn’t think he’d need them, but he liked knowing they were there.  
  
“Can I help ya?” Jazz asked, planting as much false politeness into his tone as he was capable of producing.  
  
He turned slowly, lifting his chin in the face of Springer’s bulk blocking the doorway behind him, his expression one Jazz couldn’t read, though he could probably guess what the mech was doing here.  
  
“No, wait,” Jazz said, before Springer could talk. “This is the part where ya threaten me, right? Where you tell me all the ways ya can make me disappear?”  
  
Springer twitched, and Jazz knew he’d scored a point. Mechs like Springer were pathetically easy to read. They wore their emotions on their faces, and their intentions in their frame.  
  
“Right, so let me save you a vent or two.” Jazz shuffled the pile of things in his arms -- all stuff for Hot Rod -- and took a step closer, looking up at Springer to prove a point. Taller, yes. Bigger, yes. More dangerous?  
  
Pfft.  
  
There wasn’t anyone or anything on this planet more dangerous than Jazz. The only thing or person he feared was laid up in a berth being nannied by Ratchet right now, and that fear had nothing to do with physical danger.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere. You don’t gotta like me, but Hot Rod wants me, and that’s what matters,” Jazz said. He lifted his chin, planted his feet, and waited.  
  
Springer tilted his head, optics narrowing to narrow slits. “What about you?”  
  
Jazz furrowed his orbital ridges. “What about me?”  
  
“You sticking around now?” Springer folded his arms over his chassis as if to highlight the breadth of his shoulders, the size of the cannons neatly tucked into their cradles.  
  
Tch. Jazz had been threatened by Megatron himself once upon a time. Whatever implication Springer had here didn’t hold a candle to Megatron looming over an imprisoned Jazz, determined to rip Autobot secrets from Jazz’s processor.  
  
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I am,” Jazz said, trying to keep his bolts tight and his frame loose. Springer wasn’t going to rile him. Not anymore.  
  
He’d promised Roddy he wouldn’t cause a scene.  
  
“Good.”  
  
Jazz cycled his visor. “Come again?” he said, thinking about resetting both his audials and his visual feed, because surely that hadn’t been approval.  
  
Springer ex-vented noisily and dropped his arms. “I don’t like you, but Hot Rod does, so if he decides you’re what he wants. Fine. It’s not my place to interfere.” He paused to point at Jazz. “But if you vanish on him again, all bets are off.”  
  
Ah. So there’s the threat.  
  
Jazz supposed it was fair. He had, after all, disappeared to Earth at a time when he should have took his licks and had a conversation like an adult.  
  
“Fine,” Jazz said. He juggled his belongings into one arm and stuck out a hand. “Truce?”  
  
Springer eyed his offered hand as if it was a pitviper which might strike. Given that Jazz had easily tossed Springer over his shoulder a time or two before, his hesitation was understandable.  
  
“Truce,” Springer finally agreed and clasped his hand with a firm squeeze, feet planted on the floor as if he could prevent Jazz from tossing him this time.  
  
Jazz decided to be nice.  
  
“Good.” Jazz shifted and raised his orbital ridges. “Are you gonna move now? Hot Rod’s only going to whine louder if I don’t bring him this stuff.”  
  
Springer chuckled and moved aside, barely leaving enough room for Jazz to slide between his bulk and the door frame. “Yeah, he’s always been needy like that. You sure you want to take that on?”  
  
“I came back, didn’t I?” Jazz strutted past Springer, a dance in his step. “I’m sure.”  
  
“Time will tell,” Springer said. “And I’ll be watching.”  
  
Jazz snorted.  
  


~

  
  
The knock -- not at all tentative – broke First Aid’s concentration. He swallowed a yawn and cycled his visor. He’d been close to nodding off, he realized belatedly, so he lifted his head and looked up.  
  
Of all mechs, his mentor stood in the doorway, patiently waiting.  
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
“Busy?” Ratchet asked as he politely waited for First Aid’s permission, rather than barging into the much smaller office as was his usual milieu.  
  
“Just paperwork.” First Aid sat back from the desk, wincing as a creak in his backstrut testified to how long he’d spent bent over his datapads. “Something wrong?”  
  
Ratchet finally came inside, taking the chair across from First Aid with something of a lazy slouch. “I hear you finally have your first patient.”  
  
“Yes, Starscream is sparked.” First Aid chuckled. “Somehow, I’m both surprised and not surprised at all. He’s always been something of an overachiever. Grimlock, too.”  
  
Ratchet grinned. “Very true. He did, after all, seize leadership of the Decepticons and convince Starscream it was a good idea to remain as second.”  
  
He paused and gave First Aid a long, penetrating look, which made him squirm despite his best efforts. “You said something earlier, and I think we should talk about it.”  
  
“Did I?” First Aid tried to smile, but it was hard to be flippant. Ratchet knew him too well.  
  
“You did.” Ratchet rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair before he sat up straight, like he was gearing up for a lecture. “What is it you want to tell me, Aid?”  
  
Ah.  
  
First Aid drew in a ventilation and steadied himself. “Sometimes, I think you know me too well,” he murmured, and fiddled with a stylus to give his fingers something to do.  
  
He could do this, he told himself. He loved Ratchet, and Ratchet loved him. Ratchet wanted what was best for him, what would make him happiest. He wouldn’t be angry.  
  
First Aid drew himself straight and put every ounce of conviction he held into his voice, “I don’t want to be CMO.”  
  
There. He’d said it.  
  
He waited, vents caught, for Ratchet’s reaction. But all he got was a slight tilt of Ratchet’s head, a slow nod as though he was absorbing the words before Ratchet said,  
  
“Alright. What do you want to be?”  
  
First Aid reset his visor. “What?” He leaned forward, confusion derailing his thoughts. “You’re not angry?”  
  
“Why would I be?” Ratchet looked as flummoxed as First Aid felt. “It’s your choice, Aid. I want you to be happy, not following in my footsteps because I want you to. I’d be proud no matter what you decide to do.”  
  
First Aid flushed. He’d worried for nothing.  
  
“So if I told you I want to be a sparkling specialist? That I’d rather focus on sparkling care and the sparking process and be the premier expert on it?” he asked.  
  
Ratchet chuckled and his grin widened, his optics shimmering with pride. “I’d tell you to go for it and ask if there’s anything I can do to help. You’re going to be in high demand, kiddo.”  
  
“Tell me about it.” Starscream was only the first. First Aid knew once word got out, it wouldn’t be long before more mechs took the plunge.  
  
“You know what this does mean, right?” Ratchet asked as he leaned on the arm of the chair and propped his chin on his palm.  
  
First Aid gave his mentor a sidelong look, cautiously asking, “What?”  
  
“You have to help me find someone else to take over. I want to retire eventually,” Ratchet said with a chuckle.  
  
“I think that’s a fair trade,” First Aid agreed, though for the spark of him, he couldn’t think of a blessed one.  
  
By Primus, he hoped some new refugees arrived soon. They didn’t have near enough medics to account for all of the sparklings sure to start popping up as well, though he already had it in mind to try and enlist Swoop in this new venture.  
  
Ratchet would probably get a little cranky about that, too, even if Swoop spent most of his time in Iacon with his lovers.  
  
“Good.” Ratchet grinned and stretched, leveraging himself out of the chair. “Well, I’ll leave you to your datapads. I’ve got a slew of patients who need my attention including our upcoming Prime.”  
  
“I don’t envy you that,” First Aid said and reluctantly picked up his datapads once more, relief settling around his spark with an affectionate warmth.  
  


~

  
  
For a moment, Optimus merely watched as Hot Rod and Jazz sat together, talking in hushed, affectionate tones, their fingers tangled, their fields enmeshed. The both of them looked happy, relieved, settled.  
  
It was a balm to Optimus’ own spark. He’d long hoped for Jazz to find someone special. He never would have guessed Hot Rod, but in retrospect, it made perfect sense. They were well-suited to one another.  
  
Optimus hated to interrupt, but needs must.  
  
He rapped his knuckles on the frame to announce himself before he stepped inside, both mechs looking up at him, first with surprise, then with greeting.  
  
“Ratchet tells me you’ll be discharged soon,” Optimus said as he located a stool and dragged it closer to the berth.  
  
“It should be sooner, if you ask me,” Hot Rod grumbled, shifting on the berth with all the contained energy of a Kremzeek. “I think he’s run every test in the database and then some.”  
  
Jazz chuckled and patted Hot Rod on the hand. “That’s just how he is, Roddy. You know that. Ratch gets protective of his Primes.” He slanted Optimus a look as if reading his field before he stood up and planted a kiss on Hot Rod’s forehead. “Anyway, I’m going to take a walk. You two have the talk Optimus is itchin’ to have.”  
  
“Perceptive as always,” Optimus demurred.  
  
"Is this a conversation I want to have?" Hot Rod asked, but there was tease in his tone, and his posture remained at ease.  
  
"I suppose you'll just have to find out." Jazz paused by Optimus, briefly laying a hand on his shoulder. "Good to see you up and about, too, sir."  
  
"Sir?" Optimus echoed with a raised orbital ridge. "Since when do you call me 'sir'?"  
  
Jazz grinned, full of mischief. "Seemed the thing to do." He patted Optimus. "Don't break my lover, OP."  
  
"I promise."  
  
Jazz flashed his visor in a wink before he grooved out of the room, hitting the panel with his elbow so the door would close behind him, offering them a modicum of privacy. Ratchet was likely passively monitoring them, but Optimus trusted his discretion.  
  
Hot Rod shifted on the medberth. "Is this the part where you ask me if I'm ready to take on the mantle of Rodimus Prime?"  
  
"I know you're not ready for the title, and perhaps won't be for some time," Optimus conceded as he shifted closer. "I did, however, want to ask how you feel now."  
  
Emotion flickered over Hot Rod's face. "The Matrix is less chatty, but it feels like it... fits better, I guess?" He rolled his shoulders. "I don't know if I can really explain what happened inside the Guardian, except I don’t think I did what it wanted me to do, but won anyway."  
  
"Perhaps you broke the cycle," Optimus said.  
  
Hot Rod shrugged again. “Maybe." He cycled a ventilation and gave Optimus a watery smile. "I still think Primus is out of his mind for picking me, and I still don't really want this, but I think I'm starting to see why it had to be me. Or someone like me."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Hot Rod squirmed, his face flushing, and he scratched at his jaw. "I mean, you know, I don't really care. About the traditions, about the way things are supposed to be done, about all the stupid slag that started the war in the first place. I don't care about destiny or whatever." He spread his hands. "I'm going to be me, and if the Matrix doesn't like it, it can pick someone else."  
  
Warmth flooded Optimus' chassis then, tingling around the mounts where the Matrix used to be. It was as if he'd been touched physically, and he started with a little jerk, his vents stuttering.  
  
"I think you're right," Optimus said as the ache in his chassis abruptly vanished, and he gasped when a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying went with it.  
  
"Optimus?"  
  
He shook his head, a smile curling his lips before he could stop it. "I'm quite all right, Hot Rod. Thank you." He looked up into Hot Rod's concerned gaze. "I do believe that was Primus' blessing toward my retirement."  
  
"Retirement?" Hot Rod squeaked.  
  
Optimus chuckled and patted his knee. "Don't worry. I'm not abandoning this post yet. I was, after all, elected to it. You'll have my counsel for many years to come."  
  
"Elected. That's right." Hot Rod perked up, his spoiler dancing, his optics bright. He thumped his chassis. "I got this stupid thing but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to be the leader. I've got to be _elected_." He smacked his fist into his palm, looking excited for the first time since he was told he was going to be a Prime.  
  
"The ownership of the Matrix holds great weight with the people of Cybertron. Don't be so sure they won't vote you in," Optimus cautioned.  
  
Hot Rod's grin got even wider. "Yeah, but even if they _do_ , it means they chose me, right? Not just Primus, but the people, too. It's not a given!" He looked like he would vibrate right out of the berth, so excited was he.  
  
"That is true," Optimus said, smiling despite himself. Hot Rod's enthusiasm was infectious. "It's a sign, I think, that Cybertron needs new leadership. A new generation. Those who are willing to cast aside our previous shackles and guide us to a brighter future."  
  
"And you want to retire, too." Hot Rod said, giving him a knowing look. "You've been Prime for a long time, through a lot of slag. You deserve to retire."  
  
"I'd like to, yes," Optimus conceded. He had made the promise to Soundwave, after all, that one day he'd be Soundwave's alone. "But even when that moment comes, I will still be around to offer counsel, should you need it."  
  
"And I'll need it." Hot Rod scratched the edge of his jaw again. "And I guess it wouldn't be so bad if you called me Rodimus every once in a while. Just to help me get used to the name."  
  
Optimus smiled and tilted his head. "How about only when you're on duty?"  
  
"That's perfect." Hot Rod's spoilers did a little dance again. "Thanks, Optimus. For everything."  
  
"You're welcome." Optimus patted Hot Rod's knee and stood, nudging the stool back into place under a nearby medical console. "Get some rest. I'll see if I can't convince Ratchet to loose his tight grip and release you sooner."  
  
"That really would be a miracle."  
  
They shared a laugh before Optimus took his leave, the door closing behind him. He noticed immediately, however, that when Jazz said 'take a walk', he must have meant 'wait outside the door until they're done'. He was crouched, back to the wall, visor dim as though in recharge, but he perked as soon as Optimus stepped into view.  
  
"All done?"  
  
"Are you so concerned about him?" Optimus asked.  
  
Jazz tried to wave it off, but his field gave it away. "Maybe I wanted to catch you instead?"  
  
"Did you?" Optimus' lips curved, amused. "Walk with me?"  
  
"Sure thing." Jazz fell into step beside him as they made their way down the corridor, empty of other mechs. Most of the patients from the Guardian attack were on a separate floor.  
  
"Kind of wish everyone was here to see this, you know?" Jazz said as they walked. "Prowl and Ironhide and Red Alert and all the rest. It's kind of unbelievable."  
  
Optimus hummed in agreement. "There was a time even I feared we would never get to this point of peace and renewal. I am glad I was wrong."  
  
"Can't blame ya for doubtin'. The war got pretty dark along the way. Especially at the end." A shadow crossed Jazz's face before it vanished in the wake of a sunny smile. "I'm glad we got here though, got to a point where you can even retire."  
  
"Yes. I am happy for that as well." Optimus tilted his head and drew to a halt in a deserted corner, catching Jazz's gaze. "Is that what you really wanted to discuss?"  
  
Jazz folded his arms under his bumper and rocked on his heelstruts. "I guess in a way it is." He looked up at Optimus and a slow, genuine smile bloomed on his face. "I wanted to say I'm happy for you. Happy about you and Soundwave, happy we finally got peace, just... happy about alla it."  
  
A pang of worry crept into Optimus' spark. "Why does it sound like you're about to say goodbye or do something terrible?"  
  
Jazz laughed and rolled his shoulders. "I guess 'cause it's hard not to sound ominous." He tilted his head. "Though I guess it is goodbye in a way. Hot Rod needs lookin' after, not you, so I won't be around to watch yer back much anymore. That's Soundwave's job."  
  
"You are not just someone I trust to guard my back, Jazz, you are a dear friend."  
  
"Oh, I know. I know." Jazz sucked in his bottom lip before letting it pop free again. "This is as much about me letting go as anything else. Moving on. Getting closure. That kind of thing." He gave Optimus a sidelong look.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
Optimus may have lost the Matrix, but he hadn’t lost his innate perceptions.  
  
"I see," Optimus murmured. "I apologize, Jazz. I wasn't aware."  
  
"Cause I didn't want ya to be. I worked really hard at hiding it." Jazz lifted his chin, and if there was hurt in his visor, Optimus couldn't see it. Instead, Jazz looked... well, he looked at ease and happy like Optimus had never seen before. "You were an easy mech to love."  
  
_Were_.  
  
Optimus drew some comfort from the past tense.  
  
"A hard mech to get over, too, but I managed." Jazz fluttered his visor in a wink and gave Optimus a playful rap on the windshield. "Snagged me the newer model and everything."  
  
Optimus palmed his face. "Jazz. Honestly."  
  
Jazz snickered. "Ya know I'm teasin'." He sucked in a vent and let it out in a whoosh. "Phew. Finally got that off my chest. Didn't realize how heavy it was." He thumped his own chassis now, and his field danced a playful buzz against Optimus'. "Feels good."  
  
Affection swelled within Optimus. "Thank you, Jazz. For everything."  
  
"You know I never needed that, OP, but I'll take it anyway." He took a step back with a smile. "Now I gotta get back to Hot Rod before he thinks I left again. I got some mistakes to make up for on that front. Give Sounders a kiss for me?"  
  
"I'm sure he'll treasure it always," Optimus said dryly.  
  
Jazz's laugh followed him down the hallway.  
  


~

  
  
The clean up would take months, if not years. Fortunately, the surviving Cybertronians had become quite adept at recovering post-battle. It was easier, they’d discovered, when they worked together, and many of the civilians who had evacuated were willing to bend to the task, a quiet gratitude for their safety.  
  
Perceptor was confident the star bridges could be rebuilt, and that this was the last they’d see of the Guardian. It had been well and truly defeated.  
  
“Come next year, we should be able to proceed with moving Cybertron. All we need to do now is choose a suitable location,” Perceptor explained as Brainstorm cheerfully dumped an armful of datapads on the table with a noisy clatter.  
  
“Take your pick of them,” he said.  
  
Twelve mechs sat around the table, a gathered coalition of former Autobot, former Decepticon, former Neutral, all Cybertronian, tasked with the revival and protection of Cybertron. They were warriors and scientists and medics and soldiers. They were survivors and lovers and friends and former enemies.  
  
One of them was sparked.  
  
Another one was, too, only he didn’t know it yet. Such would be a pleasant surprise come the next time his partner ran a deep-frame scan, which would be later that evening, as a matter of fact.  
  
They didn’t know two more ships were even now speeding toward Cybertron, carrying a few dozen surviving Cybertronians between them, former Autobots and former Decepticons and former Neutrals, all who heard the call to come home.  
  
Dreadwing didn’t know his missing twin was among them. But it would be a cause for celebration when the ships arrived, delivering survivors, reuniting families and partners and bringing some much-needed skills.  
  
The ships would arrive before Cybertron’s great move, but in time for the election to determine who would lead the Autobots on their path toward re-integration and continued peace. Bit by bit, the lines dividing the Cybertronians dissolved, but it was a long, hard road, and only time would take them to the end of it.  
  
Optimus would not offer his name for election. He would make a speech, announcing his retirement, with Soundwave silent and approving at his shoulder. Optimus was a Prime without a Matrix, and while his chest no longer ached, he was ready for a life of peace.  
  
Optimus would recommend the Autobots vote with their sparks and their confidence while Rodimus Prime watched from the sidelines, smiling and secretly hoping to win, if only so he could prove himself.  
  
He forbade Jazz from influencing the election. Jazz teased him about taking all the fun out of it. Later that night, Hot Rod would remind him he was still all kinds of fun, and Jazz would consider it an apt substitute.  
  
Rodimus did not know he would take command with an exceedingly high majority vote. But the Matrix would be pleased, and Optimus would smile because he knew it all along.  
  
For now, however, it was just a meeting. A scientist offered his research. Plans were debated, discussed, made. Their population could grow now, one by one, each new spark as precious as the last.  
  
Peace was held.  
  
And Primus was proud.  
  


_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: And that's all folks! That's the end of Crown the Empire, at least all of the full-length fics at any rate. I don't have any further plots hanging around at the back of my mind. I do hope you enjoyed the journey. :)
> 
> That being said, I would like to write a sort-of follow-up collection of drabbles and oneshots to answer any small lingering questions. If there are any characters you are specifically curious about what happened to them, let me know! I'm going to make a list of things to answer, and I'd love to know what the readers want.
> 
> Thank you so much for being with me all the way. Thank you for your comments, your kudos, your continued support. It has meant the world to me. <3
> 
> Until the next journey... take care!


End file.
